HD 'Pharo'  Bottomdraco Fest 2010
by tigersilver
Summary: AU, EWE. Set in the English Regency Period, Viscount Draco Malfoy and Mr. Harry Potter pursue a dangerous game, involving the gambling of hearts and cards, all to expose the evil ways of Lord Voldemort.  Bows to Georgette Heyer.
1. Chapters One and Two

Title: Pharo  
**Author:** **tigersilver**  
**Prompt:** #100; Draco Malfoy is a 17th C. rake.  
**Pairing(s): **H/D, R/Hr, BZ/GW, TN/PP, LM/NM, implied SB/RL  
**Summary:** It is some years after the Battle of Waterloo and peace settles leerily over Muggle England and the Continent. The Beau Monde is a glittering chandelier at which all the lights of the world gather, Wizard and Muggle, and for a gentleman of means and perhaps also title, there's only a few items of importance to consider: the Season, the gossip and the perfect construction of one's cravat,not necessarily in that order. However, the Viscount Malfoy's papa has just been cruelly ruined, his fortune lost in a game of Pharo to the scurrilous Lord Voldemort, an elder rake with an eye toward rapid political advancement. The Viscount, darling of the Ton, faces a loss of face in the world of Polite Society, on par with the unfortunate Beau Brummell's, and feels he must serve comeuppance to the villain, plus settle a few old scores along the way. Harry Potter, fellow veteran of Wizarding Waterloo and Malfoy's longtime compatriot from their schooldays at Hogwarts, is of the decided opinion the Viscount goes much too far when he sets up a Pharo-Banque in his own drawing room, scheming to reverse his endangered fortunes.  
**Rating: **NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** The recognizable characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and legal assigns; no profit is intended or made via this work of fiction. Credit is also duly attributed to the collected works of Georgette Heyer, specifically the novel 'Faro'.  
**Warning(s):** Explicit descriptions of sexually-oriented male-on-male behavour. Entirely AU & EWE. Bottom Draco.  
**Word Count:** 34,000+/- [Posted as part of the **bottom_draco*** 2010 Fest]  
**Author's Notes:** This fic requires that your suspension of disbelief be left firmly at the coat check. In fact, don't bother with any sorts of canon expectations or requirements: they do not apply here, except for in one specific case only (I hope): character. Literally, I've lifted the characters from HP and set them down wholesale and as I saw fit, right in the midst of the insular, extravagant world of the British Regency period and squarely amongst the Muggle Upper Ten Thousand. I've rearranged their pasts, their timelines (as well as a few Muggle events) and their futures to suit my nefarious purposes.  
Further, this owes a great debt to the Muggle author Georgette Heyer, author of Faro. Heyer was the acknowledged Queen of the Regency Romance; this is my homage, as I teethed on her as a cub. Not literally, of course! Prompter, I owe _you_ an immediate apology: this is set approximately fifteen years after the end of the Georgian era. My excuse is that I cannot, for my life, write convincing late 17th C. dialogue, forsooth, and the fic would've suffered. Please forgive me. I hope this suits as a replacement.  
Lastly, I owe an incredible debt of gratitude to the wonderful, patient Mods and my more-than-amazing, equally patient betas: My Patient Built-In Beta, the Demi-Goddess, the Wicked One and my Darling Spice Girl, Nutmeg (**lonerofthepack** , **demicus** , **eevilalice*** and **megyal*** ), for their feedback, comments, and willingness to romp with me unimpeded through Almack's and private gaming hells, Bond Street and Vauxhall. I cannot thank you sufficiently, _ever_.  
NOTE: Pharo (aka Pharoah; Faro) is a card game in which much advantage is perceived to the players (or 'punters'). The dealer (or Banquer, Banker, Tailliure) deals two cards at a turn from a closed box after shuffling, and bets (cheques) are placed and paid on those two cards dealt: one the punter's favour and one the Banquer's. The cards are kept track of by a cardkeeper, who ably wields an abacus-like device and also by individual tally cards, but there is much room for cheating on both sides of the baize-cloth table.  
The game was immensely popular with the nobility of France in the 17th and 18th centuries, and then spread throughout Europe and the Americas. Fortunes were lost and won on a turn of a card, and passions ran high and feverish. For more information on Pharo, please consult the sources listed at the end. Chapter titles used here are based on terms from the game, as appropriate. _It is not necessary to be conversant in Pharo to read this piece_; one only needs accept that gambling, particularly with card games, was perfectly acceptable and expected in the Regency Era. 

**0O0**

**One: Soda (Introducing Viscount Malfoy)**

Draco Lucifer Regulus Malfoy, Sixth Viscount Malfoy, scrawled his initials across the parchment bill of lading, directing the charge be paid out against his running tab.

"I'm afraid, milord, we are unable." The tradesman's protest was jittery 'round the edges, as if he fully expected to be hexed within an inch of his miserable life. "To—to accept!"

"Pardon?" Malfoy blinked, angled pale eyebrow cocked and at the ready.

"We-we cannot honour your note, milord! I'm so sorry!"

"What!" hissed Viscount Malfoy. He rose from the seat the merchant had set for him, practically levitating on ill temper alone. "How _dare_ you, you cretin? Of course you may! My credit is in excellent standing! Excellent, I tell you!"

"Malfoy—Draco!"

"Oh, Goyle, you're here? Wait but a moment, will you?" The Viscount flapped a white hand toward his lifelong hanger-on and friend-cum-minion, Baron Lord Goyle. ""I've a need to settle with this ruffian, whether it by short swords or wands makes not the slightest difference—"

"Milord," twittered the unfortunate tailor, whose aging viz was a positive study in fear and consternation, "Milord, in the papers this morning, there was—"

"Malfoy!" Goyle said again, more urgently, his voice a bass rumble. "It's crucial, Malfoy-y'see—"

"Goyle," the Viscount bit out, "dear chap, be silent."

"But—but!" Goyle sputtered, until the Viscount's heavy glare had him silent again.

"Now, then, my very dear fellow," the Viscount turned back to his tailor, and spoke through gritted teeth, "perhaps you'd care to lay out for me precisely why you feel you cannot—"

"Draco, listen!" It burst out of the larger man's lungs with all the force of a Sonorous. Goyle's nagging voice was beginning to prove quite irksome; young Lord Malfoy pinched his brow with gloved fingertips. "You must not have seen it in the papers-!"

"-accept the standing commission for my garb and be grateful to have it," the Viscount went right on, despite his growing headache, "before I take all my custom elsewhere, you slag—"

"-in the papers, milord, concerning the Earl, milord, and it's most unfortunate, I agree, but—" Bagshotte, the tailor, babbled.

"Draco!" Goyle barked, his deep chest rumbling. "You're bloody father's gone and lost his fortune at Pharo! You're—"

"—and I'm sure another reputable establishment would be more than grateful to recive my custom—" the Viscount soldiered on, pinching his gathered brow tightly between two gloved fingertips.

"Ruined!" squeaked the squirming individual, the pincushion attached to his arm flopping about like a puppet. He was so very downcast, Malfoy spared a very brief moment to wondering if he'd sink through the floorboards in shame.

"Ruined!" blared Goyle at the same moment, in stentorian tones worthy of the battlefield they'd most recently returned from as heroes: Waterloo. "You're _ruined_, Draco!"

"Er—ruined?" echoed young Lord Malfoy, and promptly turned as snowy white as his intricate cravat. "Pardon?"

"They're all saying as how the keeping box was gaffed, Draco, but your pater—he's gone and legged it to the Continent, the Earl has! It's in the ruddy _Prophet!_"

The tailor's cramped quarters fell deathly quiet. One could only hear the eerie snap of the young Lord's white teeth as they clamped together. One could've heard a pin drop, mayhap, but they were securely attached to the tailor's wristlet cushion.

"Er—" the tradesman ventured after a long and quite uncomfortable moment. "Ah, Milord. I...perhaps. Um."

"Draco—" Lord Goyle began, apparently also of the feeling the extended silence emanating from the stricken Viscount was ominous. "Your lady mother—"

"Bagshotte!" Lord Malfoy turned on his boot heel and regarded the tailor with a steely glare. Apparently, he'd arrived at a course of reasonable action in that overlong pause. "Precisely how _long_ have you and yours done business with the Malfoys?"

"Er, um, ah—thirty years, Milord?" the tailor quavered, trembling with nervous palsy. "Ever since the Earl that is now was but a wee lad, Milord; your age, like—"

"And do you honestly believe a Malfoy—a _Malfoy_, Bagshotte!-would cheat you of your proper due for services rendered?" Viscount Malfoy demanded, his left brow twitching upward ever so faintly. "_Do_ you, Bagshotte?"

"No, sir!" the tailor replied hastily, bowing and scraping. "Of course not, sir!"

"Then you shall have no further objection to providing me my hunting coat, Bagshotte, and forwarding the lading as per usual, shall you?"

"Malfoy?" Lord Goyle, red-faced and gawping, had meanwhile stepped back a pace and assumed an air of high puzzlement. His somewhat grim and meaty face was tentatively accepting, though. He, of all people, was well aware of the Viscount's vissicitudes and airs. "Are you _certain_—"

"Bagshotte?" The grey eyes were calmly intent and never strayed from the tailor's faded blue ones. "What do you say, sirrah?"

"Milord! No…of course not," the tailor replied finally, his thin shoulders slumping in defeat. "it will be exactly as you say, sir. Delivery tomorrow, first thing, and a pleasant day to you." He bowed low, as was customary. "Milord."

"Thank you, Bagshotte," the Viscount replied softly, and smiled, his full lower lip thin withal. "You shall not be disappointed, naturally; you may rely on that. Come, Goyle. I must doubtless see to my mother, as you've said. I fear there will be any number of groundless rumours to be squashed forthwith. Hah! As if a _Malfoy_ was ever truly ruined!"

"Oh—er! Right, Draco! Hah! Exactly so!" Goyle burbled, backing his bulk 'round in the tiny confines of the shop. He gained the exit, politely allowing his friend to sally forth first. "Of course! Yes, yes—let's be off, shall we, old man?" 

**0O0**

**Two: Punters (Those Who Play)**

"Maman," the Viscount said, taking up his mother's parchment-pale hand, "my honoured sire, the extant Earl, appears to be residing semi-permanently on the Continent. Are you desirous of joining him there? I believe the most recent missive related that he was dallying in Calais, eagerly awaiting your presence."

"Dear boy," Narcissa, Countess Malfoy, Viscountess Black and, in her own right and through hereditary matrilineal act, also the Comtesse Rosier, inclined her patrician and very dainty nose. "I should imagine he is, the sad rapscallion," she sighed, and rose in a sweep of ice-blue watered silks, releasing her son's long fingers in order to rest her hand on his arm. "No matter."

She huffed, also daintily, expressing a faint degree of ladylike annoyance, and allowed a tiny frown to cloud her fair brow.

"Though I'll find it vastly inconvenient, no doubt, removing abruptly to France. The Season has just now begun, dear boy, with the Prewitt's _bal masque_. How tiresome you father is! Come, walk the gardens with me, yes?" she urged and her dutiful son made a slight leg and proceeded to lead her out the French doors and into the nearby Knot Garden. "I'll be most pleased to introduce you to my newest roses, instead."

"Of course, Maman," Draco replied, instantly, as befitted the 'good son'. It was a role he'd been fulfilling ably, ever since the fateful day his father the Earl had used a leather strap to instill the fear of Merlin in him, over the unfortunate ramifications of his minor brangle with a titleless, charity-case, country-bred cretin by the name of Potter, well back in his boarding school days.

Her only child, Narcissa Malfoy mused idly, was in particularly fine spirits this morning, despite the rumours of their sad state of ruinment. Her husband's recent disastrous downturn at the tables seemed to have not affected him in the slightest. Perhaps, Narcissa Malfoy pondered, just p'rhaps that was due to the certain knowledge his most beloved mother was possessed of her own considerable fortune, and also that the main estate was nicely entailed and thus completely unassailable by an irresponsible _paters familias_, and further. It could be, too, Draco's certain knowledge that Great Grandpere Rosier had willed him a sizeable portion of his own to spend as he so pleased, as well as the small favour of a possibly useless French title of Vicomte. Her darling boy's air of feckless bonhomie was quite understandable, then. One could never be quite entirely downcast unless one was pockets-to-let.

Too, and not of small import at all, Narcissa had heard some intriguing whispers, to the effect that that Potter boy had emerged at last from his self-enforced rustication.

"Will you go, Maman?" her son queried dutifully, stopping at her gesture before her most recent favourite rose bush, a violet-hued beauty studded with copious blooms. The scent was of lavender and vanilla, and Narcissa was fond of scenting her toilette waters with the dried petals; she smiled at both her delights with equal measure of pleasure. "I should wager the estate in Champagne would be most delightful in the spring," the Viscount continued, flapping a careless hand, "and Father does seem bound and determined to give the whole Season a miss, this year. I'm sure he has his reasons."

"True, true." Narcissa bent her swan-like neck to sniff daintily at a rosebud. "France is not the same, though, as it was in my salad days, darling. The Muggles there are still quite unsettled, poor things, after that little contretemps with the horrid Boney person. But _you_, darling…do tell, what might your plans be for this Season? I confess, I am curious."

"Oh, I believe I shall first remove to the townhouse and set up a Pharo-banque," Draco smiled sweetly, as if he were announcing something far less shocking for a gentleman of antique title and consequence than the establishment of a gambling hell in his own parlour. "It seems fitting, don't you agree? I am Father's heir; I must step up to these small...provocations"

"Ah…." Narcissa—or Cissy as she was known to her family—snapped open her gilded Chinese ivory fan, a gift from the gadabout Muggle Regent-before he became quite so portly, of course. "Hmm. I see. You shall be entertaining punters at home, my love, in place of seeking them out? How droll. Do mind Great-Great Aunt Hesper's silver cauldrons."

"Of course, Maman," Draco nodded, and the sun turned his distinctive hair to a cap of silver-gilt brightness, undeniably _Malfoy_. "The existing wards are more than sufficient, I believe, but I shall take every precaution. There are scoundrels about, and even in broad daylight."

"Oh, yes," Narcissa reached the center of the Garden and they took a sultry turn as she flapped her fan lazily, "that does remind me, dearest. Your father has expressed a wish that you cultivate both the Parkinsons _and_ the Greengrasses most assiduously this Season. They've marriageable daughters on the market."

Draco wrinkled his Norman nose. "The Parkinson's still stink ever so, so faintly of trade yet, Maman, despite our numerous connections with them and the passage of three full centuries, and the Greengrasses have always been vastly rustic and hidebound in their views. 'Bovine' is the proper descriptor, I believe. Whatever_ is_ he thinking, matching me up to either of those families? Not that I wish to be matched."

"No doubt that you'll hasten to shore up the reduced Malfoy fortunes by way of a marriage of convenience, dear one," Narcissa twinkled, "but you must do as you please, my lovely son. I wouldn't endanger your future happiness with your father's erumpentine scheming, not if _I_ were to tread even a pace in those glorious Hobys of yours. To each, as they say, his very own."

"Precisely so."

A nodding Draco took up his mother's hand and pressed a kiss to its back, where the skin was still as lily-white as in her youth. She was _sans_ the requisite lacy half-gloves this morning—a sin, really, in the Muggle Ton, and tantamount to traipsing about half-unclothed—but she'd such lovely skin, she'd no doubt be forgiven. The Viscount blessed his lucky constellation, for he'd inherited that attribute, along with his sainted mother's well-disguised but vibrant sense of the ridiculous.

"I rejoice that we fully understand each other, Maman, at last," he grinned slyly. "No other parent is as admirable as you—nor anywhere near as supremely fair."

A quick flick of her fan to his greenglass-hued superfine sleeve let Draco know his mother was vastly pleased with the unsolicited compliment.

"Oh, you!" she chuckled, fondly. "Be off with you, my little love. Go and charm some pretty young ladies—or p'raps some prettier young gentlemen, as the case may be. That should serve to put a damper on the gossip just as well as your foolish scheme of Pharo. And, too-the Earl," Narcissa winked merrily at her heir.

"I'll take my leave, then," Draco bowed, grinning. "An arm back to the breakfasting room, Maman?"

Lady Malfoy shook her head slightly, waving her fan with a swish and watching as it transformed into a lovely, delicate wand. She pointed it smartly at a nearby yew bush, trimmed to within an inch of its life by zealous house elves, which promptly Transfigured itself into a comfortable bench, well-padded with tasseled cushions.

"No, love, I am more than content, right here. I shall sit and enjoy the scent of my lovely French roses. Your father has just forwarded me a new variety. Scorby has the gardeners settling them in, even now."

"Then, fare well in my absence, dearest Maman," Draco smiled and leant forward to clasp her free hand once more. A quick brush of lips across the tips of her buffed fingernails avowed his eternal affection. "I'll take my leave, if I may? No doubt I'll be dining in Town this evening. Don't allow poor old Scorby to wait up for me, please."

"Of course, Draco; as you will," his mother nodded. "Oh, and Draco—my son," she added quickly, just as her eldest and only was on the verge of Disapparation.

"Maman?" The Viscount paused, a step away from his standing appointment with the Lords Nott and Goyle. "Yes? Something more?"

"Did you wish to know who won the game played with your father, Draco? The banquer? Or would you rather discover that for yourself?"

Draco smile turned grim in a heartbeat; he shook his perfectly coiffed head sharply.

"No…I believe I may guess the culprit, Maman, easily. There are really only the three possibilities, are there not?"

"That is so, darling," Narcissa nodded. "Only the three. Do take care. Town _is_ full of ruffians." 


	2. Chapters Three to Seven

_**HD 'Pharo' Parts 3-7**_

**Three: _Carte Anglaise_ (Introducing Mr. Harry Potter, the Hero)**

Mister Harry Potter was to be found at Gentleman Jackson's on a Friday afternoon, on Bond Street, engaging in a bout with his good friend, the Honourable Ronald Weasley. This fine May day, the two pummeled one another with a certain exacting science, collecting a ring of admirers, until finally a dirty white rag was thrown in the ring by Master Weasley's groom-cum-trainer, Mr. Finnegan.

"Tha's enough now, boy-o," he cried out to the Honourable Ronald. 'You're all over bloody on yer beak. Your Mum'll be right arsed w'you, getting all mumpsy-like."

"Oh, now, Seamus, my man, I'm more than good for another go," the Honourable Ronald protested. "You, Harry?"

"Oh? Er, no, actually. I've an urgent appointment. 'Pologies, Ronald, but you know how it is," Mr. Potter replied, ambling easily from the sanded square that did double duty as a practise ring and a betting arena on certain nights of the week.

"Oh, I see," the Honourable Ronald drawled, nodding, with a long slow drop of a milk-pale eyelid over a fiery blue eye. Like all the Weasleys—and there was a bounteous assortment to chose from—the Hon. Ronald was ginger-haired and quite tall and broad once he'd reached his majority. "M'sister's expecting you, eh, Potter? Best hurry off then; our little spitfire doesn't like to be kept waiting. The Park, then?"

"Er, no, Ron," Potter replied, buttoning up his shirt and settling the high points of his collar, "not a'tall. Something else I've on—a gentleman's wager."

"Oh, is it, Harry?" the Hon. Ronald perked up as he, too, repaired his fashion. His clothing was not quite of the same quality as Potter's, given that Potter had bags of it to spend freely and of course the Weasleys did not, being legion, but it was more than acceptable for a younger son of a baron. "Anything I should be in on? Duelling, p'raps? Another broom race? Or are you trying out your hand at those Muggle curricles again?"

"Nothing of the sort, Ronald," Potter answered repressively, having been helped into his coat of green superfine by the deft hands of Seamus Finnegan. Frowning, he checked his boots for the sanctity of their polish, and fussed with his cravat. "Merely someone I've neglected to call upon. Duty requires it. And our wager that I wouldn't, of course."

"T'is likely another doxy," Finnegan chimed in, and, when the two gentlemen swiveled their respective heads to stare at him, aghast, he made haste to continue, "the female Muggle sort, of course, Mr. Ronald, Mr. Potter! Heavens forefend it t'were t'other!"

"Again, no, Seamus," Potter chuckled, "most definitely _not_ a doxy, of any sort, but my thanks for the vote of confidence. I'll be off then, Ronald. Good day to you!"

"Oh, Harry! I say!" the Hon. Ronald cried out after him, throwing a staying paw out. "See you at Almack's this evening?"

Potter, nearly out the door and into the bustle of Bond Street, turned back for a brief moment, his face assuming a constipated air. "Er, p'raps, Ronald. We'll see."

"Oh, but-!"

The Honorable Ronald was quick to hop after Potter, though still attempting to jam one foot into a well-polished boot. He thumped along, until he fetched up at a confiding distance, elbowing aside newcomers to Jackson's Parlour with a flurry of 'pardons!'

"Harry, I most particularly wished to introduce to you Miss Granger, an…an acquaintance of mine! Mum's sponsoring her come-out, you know. Was rather counting on it, old man; do say you'll attend!"

"Ah…" Mr. Potter assumed a look of interested contemplation, regarding his oldest—or nearly oldest-friend. "Well, then," he sighed, at long last, "if you require it, Ronald, than I shall make every attempt to be present, at least to make a leg to your lady. My fondest regards to your mother, then—_and_ your mysterious Miss Granger, of course!"

Potter was off with a quick wave, leaving a brilliantly flushed Honourable Ronald behind, striding purposefully down Bond Street. He'd a destination in mind and indeed, an appointment, but it wasn't a matter to be bruited about with the Hon. Ron, who'd definitely take Mr. Potter's appointment amiss.

No, this engagement was with none other than his eminence Viscount Malfoy, noted rake of the Wizarding Regency. The Weasleys and the Malfoys were not _entente cordiale_, sad to say. Long had simmered a volatile resentment between the Viscount, Mr. Potter's first acquaintance amongst Wizardkind prior to arriving at the Scots boarding school all three had attended, Hogwarts, and the Honorable Ronald Weasley, whom Harry had met and solidly befriended on the terribly long carriage ride to Scotland. But Mr. Potter's odd bonding with the haughty Viscount persisted through thick and thin, and, when the War had come to the Continent and Napoleon Bonaparte's forces had invaded Brussels, both young gentlemen had promptly followed the drum straight out of Muggle Oxford, the university they'd both chosen to attend after matriculation from good old Hogs.

Malfoy and Potter had both advanced the ranks rapidly, as well. The Viscount soon commanded a crack squadron of Auld Salazar's Green-and-Silvers, a noted broom cavalry, and Mr. Potter became a celebrated front-line duellist, as well as leading the Red-and-Gold Brigade, _the_ crack division of Wellington's Wizarding forces. They often flew midnight sorties together, joining ranks to chivvy and herd Bonaparte's Muggles into safe capture, as well as performing various devastatingly deadly assaults upon the battalions of the opposing pro-Boney Wizards. Mr. Potter had even played court spy upon occasion. Indeed, had at one point been rescued from certain disaster by a careless voucher from the most redoubtable Lady Malfoy, a nodding acquaintance of the French Emperor's haughty Muggle consort, Marie-Louise.

The defeat of Bonaparte at Muggle battle of Waterloo had seen them both decorated for their bravery by a grateful Ministry and the Muggle Regent, and Harry Potter elevated firmly to the rank of Major, the only title he claimed. Long had the Potters been landed gentry, with a sprawling estate marching peaceably along the Welsh border, but never before had they claimed title, not even a barony. Nor wished to, as Mr. Potter had cheekily informed the Viscount numerous times, over years upon years, whenever the Viscount taunted him with it, milord's usual teasing mood being always the prevalent. "Far too much trouble," he'd claimed, and the Viscount had sneered, "Plebe!", as was his usual retort.

"Plain old Potter has finally come calling," the Viscount smirked nastily, as expected, when Mr. Potter Apparated abruptly into his Library a short period later that morning. "At last, and against all odds. Will wonders never cease?"

Major Potter cuffed the Viscount gently on his shiny locks, careful of his starched collar points, and took up the glass of Firewhisky the Viscount had ready at hand for him.

"You are, as always and ever, a rude old get, Malfoy," he chuckled, settling himself on the silk-cushioned divan. He examined his fingernails and then buffed them lightly on the breast of his cutaway morning coat. "And you owe me a pony. Now, what's this I hear tell about some chap stiffing your poor innocent papa at Pharo? That true?"

"Oh, he's lost it all—yet again, Potter," the Viscount huffed, features severe. He sloshed a dollop of the golden-brown spirit into another tumbler and downed a brief swallow. "Nothing out of the usual way," he added, shrugging in a more nonchalant manner, as was his way. Always played his cards close to his chest, did the Viscount, or so his admirers noted. "Of course...and why would this be in any way unusual, Potter? Maman had said at first she would join him in fleeing the horrors of Newgate, and then that she'd not countenance for a single moment deserting the country at the very start of the High Season, unless it's to repair to Town, so I know not what _her_ game is, presently. Father has settled in nicely at Calais, meanwhile, in m'godfather's company, and stays as is his habit at the Rose and Garter, doubtless frolicking with the maidservants and grooms. A cloud in a cauldron, all this fiddle-faddle. Nothing more."

"You don't say, Malfoy," Harry Potter narrowed his green eyes at the elegant length of the Viscount, returned to lounging carelessly on the matching armchair across from him. "Then why go so far as to establish your Pharo-banque? You're aware the Ministry frowns upon such things?"

"Bosh and nonsense! All a wild rumour, Potter! There's no confirmation I've even got one."

The Viscount crossed to the finely carved escritoire that held the flagon of Firewhiskey, having paced away from it whilst he was speaking. Never still, his young lordship; another trait Mr. Potter knew all too well. He topped up his crystal tumbler and waved the decanter at Potter, who motioned away a refill with a short shake of his head.

"The Ministry knows nothing of my banque, Potter, in any road." the Viscount continued, having downed another half-glass with cool dispatch. "T'is naught but a hand of cards amongst friends to their blind eye. The Muggle Regent is the one I'm concerned with, and he is far from frowning, Harry, I assure you. Was in fact present in my parlour just last week, playing deep. Took a thousand of the Queen's Guineas off him in a heartbeat. And he _smiled_, Harry, all the while. Too rich, that."

"Draco," Potter also rose, and took the emptied glass from the Viscount's hand with a quick deft motion. "Draco, my old arse. Slow down, do."

The Viscount turned upon Mr. Potter a look of mild enquiry, but there was a wild gleam deep in his silvery eyes Potter knew all too well.

"Potter?"

The barely touched contents in Mr. Potter's glass barely sloshed as the old familiar visitor to Malfoy's townhome set it downupon the lacquered escritoire. He'd shedt his seemingly casual air of bonhomie altogether and become very grave of mien in the merest blink of an intent green eye.

"You're playing too deep a game," Mr. Potter stated plainly, a petulant frown building ferociously upon the planes of his features. "Call it off, Draco, there's a good fellow. Your Father will no doubt fleece some other less fortunate French lordling any day now and then all will be again right with the world. There's no need for this. You're taking risks that are entirely unnecessary...and I don't like it, not one bit!"

"Harry!"

Draco whirled on his heel, spinning away in a sudden tempest of fury, only to be fetch up straightway against Major Potter's broad chest. He thumped it firmly with a fist for emphasis.

"You don't understand, do you, you brainless dolt? And you don't know anywhere near the whole of it, Scarhead! I was refused by Bagshotte! _Bagshotte the tailor_, Harry! It was atrocious—Goyle was present and likely had it all over White's within the hour—"

"Now, Draco—you're doing it up much too brown! _This_ for a shopkeep?"

"-an insult of great severity to my House, it is! It's not to be borne, Harry!" The Viscount ripped himself away again and began a much more rapid rate of pacing, his boot heels clacking briskly as he strode the parquetry floor of his Belgravia residence's Library. "_Not_ to be borne. The damage is too high! What have I but my pride, Potter? Father has gambled away our dignity!"

Mr. Potter rocked back on his boot heels, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"Hmmm. So, it's revenge, then, Draco? You plan to entice this unfortunate gentleman into your parlour for a bare-handed bout of pasteboard—all to settle up a pointless slight from your tailor? And piddling Vauxhall gossip that will pass away to naught in a matter of hours?"

"But, of course it's revenge, Potter!" the Viscount burst out. "Are you a fool? A sheep? An _ass_? Would you have allowed that to stand for even one instant, had it been you? Bagshotte, Potter! I think not, decidedly, and further, you interfering get, it's not just _any_ old sharp who's fleeced Father's pockets! It's Lord Voldemort, and you well recall what was said of him during the War! This is for England's sake, Potter!"

"Voldemort, eh? Well, well, well..." Potter murmured, pausing his hand as it stroked his smooth-shaven chin. "Hadn't realized he'd dared to show his mug in Town during the High Season, not after the sad incident with that poor Muggle heiress," Potter mused, contemplatively, green eyes narrowed and turned to the innocuous view into Malfoy House's bank of Library windows. With casual elegance, he quietly resumed his seat on the settee, eyes gleaming a deep quiet forest-green. Milord Malfouy, released, stood and watched him, as quietly. "Any rises yet, Malfoy, or are you still casting the rod?'

"Oh, he bit, just last evening." The Viscount, his mercurial flash of temper having dissipated, deigned to some across the carpet and settle in beside Potter on the cushions. He sipped at his reclaimed, refilled whisky and smiled, ever so slowly, grey eyes darkening to a pleased pewter. "And was allowed to take away a paltry sum and my two third-best racing Thestrals, Potter. He'll return, I'm sure, for my next little soiree. LIkely on the morrow, I'd wager."

"Then, no callers this evening, Draco?" Potter once more removed the tumbler from the Viscount's white hand. The lace at their cuffs wove together briefly and the Viscount hastily cast his eyes upon it, apparently deep in private musings of his own. "No hands of cards between friends?" Mr. Potter prodded. "Nor prior engagements?"

"No…I am horridly free of all obligations, plain Potter," the Viscount murmured, having taken that moment to shift his weight imperceptibly closer, "and am bored to tears already. And you?"

"Almack's, to my eternal woe. The Honorable Ronald commands me," Potter revealed, allowing his arm to slide ever so gently around the Viscount's wide shoulders, only barely padded by Mr. Weston's minions. Malfoy was tugged a wee bit closer, and went, willingly enough, as he made no protest. "But that's not until eight, at the very earliest, Draco. I'm more than open to being amused in the interim."

"Are you, Plain Old Potter?" The Viscount, all at once sporting a faint flush to his cheeks, occupied his suddenly restless hands with deftly removing Mr. Potter's much-abused cravat in a business-lke fashion. "I see. And you've come to _me_ for alleviation of your doldrums?"

He scowled suddenly; Mr. Potter's intricately embroidered waistcoat was next to hand and the cloth-covered buttons were patently giving the Viscount some little trouble. "Gudgeon!" he breathed and ripped at them, impatient.

"I have, Milord Malfoy," Mr. Potter replied, apparently quite pleased at being summarily de-garbed for the second time that morningand grinning at his elegantly rushed companion like a veritable schoolboy. "Knowing I'm always welcome to trouble you for such...amusements. Any objections? Am I wrong-headed, then?"

"Although you've not called upon me even the once and have been residing in Town for over a week now?" Milord demanded, lips thinned in a straight, humourless line. "Still alright, is it, to trouble me?" The Viscount's frown deepened, unabated. "Despite your contemptible ill manners in avoiding me, my Poor Plain Potter? Am I too publically disgraced for your blood. then?"

"Been just a wee bit occupied, Malfoy," Potter flushed, the colour shading into the bones of his jaw nicely. "That's all...and that last is unadulterated gammon. _You've_ not made any effort to look me up, have you now?"

"That is not what we wagered, plebe," the Viscount raised the stormy eyes he was known for and glared haughtily at his visitor, a simmering muted fury in his gaze, and then attacked Mr. Potter's flies fiercely.

"You _use_ me, Potter—always you use me, and don't deny it! Every. Single. Time! Scurrilous bastard!"

"Hardly _using_ you, Draco, when you enjoy the company as much as I do!" Potter rejoined hotly. "Climb down off your high ropes, you bleeder!"

"Whether I find enjoyment in your cock or not is immaterial to the matter, Harry," the Viscount spoke right over Potter's minor outburst, smiling tightly. He was every inch the haughty Malfoy, though he held the cock in question carefully in hand. He stroked it, quite deliberately, the gauze of Mr. Potter's unmentionables cloaking only barely the purpling swell, and Mr. Potter shivered visibly before he let leave, waving that slightly sticky pale hand about carelessly.

"The crux of the matter is, it shames you to be seen out and about in my company, my dearest Mister P. O. Potter. As a acknowledged rake, I'm not cut of sufficiently respectable cloth for your doting clan of Weasleys, am I?" he demanded, eyebrows slashing skywards in challenge. "Nor do I possess the conventional means to bear you heirs for your vast and boring estates." The pale silver-gilt hair that proclaimed him a Malfoy sifted forward, abruptly disguising his troubled brow as he grimly pried apart Potter's fashionable buckskin breeches, tugging them down lean hips. "It is still the same as it ever was, is it not? I'm only your poor woebegotten Cyprian and never to be considered eligible _parti_ for the prestigious and oh-so-plain Potters!"

"Draco!" Potter exclaimed, as the Viscount reclaimed confident possession of his more than half-erect prick through the fine covering of muslin drawers. "_Ah_! That-that's utter _fustian_! Poppycock and nonsense! You make far too much of this, as always. And it goes both ways, does it not? I'm hardly your boon companion when you're out on the Town with your cronies from Slytherin. You brush me off, every time."

The finely-moulded head tilted back up again and the Viscount set his sharp chin firmly, even as he stroked Potter's cock into rigidity through the fabric with a practiced roll of the wrist. The flash of quicksilver in his burning eyes reminded the Major of their first tempestuous meeting at Madame Malkin's. So long ago, so many years, and it had set the tone between them ever since, something the Honorable Ronald appeared not to understand in the slightest.

This wasn't mere boyhood friendship, forged of boarding school pranks and the like. This was _passion_, and it existed nowhere else in Mr. Potter's dull-as-ditchwater world.

"Harry," the Viscount bit out, "_I_ am not the fool who disdained to take up company after Hogwarts—nor after Waterloo, when the iron was hot to the strike and all would've been forgiven by Society, and even by Father. _I_ am not the one who dropped my lover like a stone to a still pond last summer in Brighton and then disappeared without a word off to that miserable hole you so rightly call 'Grimmauld Place'. _You_, as I recall, had your 'obligations', and it was to your so-dear Weasleys, naturally. 'Obligations', if I may point out, upon which you've _not _acted upon in an age. Where ever _is_ your so-oft proclaimed intended? Why doesn't she dangle from your arm through the mills of the Season? I begin to wonder what precisely the Honourable Miss Weasley is thinking, allowing her beaux so much free rein. She'll end up an ape leader, bet on it."

"Miss Weasley and I had—_have_-an understanding, Malfoy," Potter averred stoutly. He'd regained his habitual calm and was smiling at his tempestuous companion ever so faintly, his cheeks creased in attractive lines, as if there was some jest only he was aware of. "You knew all about that...understanding when we took up again after Waterloo—and stated often enough that it made no matter to you! _You_, Malfoy, were not in the market for a lifelong connection between Potter and Malfoy—or so you claimed. You disdained it, in favour of an heir begotten from a Witch of good breeding! I hardly think you may object to my choices now!"

"Oh! Button your lip, Potter!" the Viscount ground out, clearly impatient with their same old brangle and, lunging forward, he toppled his unannounced visitor fully backwards atop the mint-hued overstuffed cushions, pressing the hard lines of his sneering mouth against Potter's parted lips. "Just shut your sodding gob! You only ever speak rubbish these days, Potter! And not another word about the Weasley chit-I shan't stand for it!"

"Gladly, Malfoy!" Potter growled, all calm fled hastily, and hauled the Viscount to him in a crushingly close embrace. "And likewise!"

**Four: Case Keeper (Introducing the extant Earl Malfoy and Milord Severus Snape, Headmaster)**

"Malfoy, they dine abominably late here in Calais." The tall, dark-haired Wizard with the thin lips and fusty black robes pinched his lips to the uttermost thinness. "These Frenchies must all have cast-iron constitutions, to go so long without repast. I'm amazed you've not expired yet, what with the sheer energy you expend chasing skirt-and breeches, let's not forget. I'm equally bewildered _I've _endured this long, keeping you company in this stinking hole you so laughingly call 'lodging'. 'Rose and Garter', indeed! More like 'Swill and Bucket'!"

"What, Sev? You object to my boffing servants and Muggles? Hardly; they come to me, and willing. Have some brandy; settle your liver," Lucius Malfoy, Earl Malfoy, replied absently, waving a hand at the bottles and glasses laid out on a nearby sidetable. He continued to peruse the latest Owl from his beloved wife, Narcissa, unperturbed.

"What news on the home front, if you don't mind my asking?" his companion asked idly, pointing a wand at the brandy decanter. It rose, and went about the business of neatly pouring some of its contents into a smudged goblet.

"Cissy writes the idiot boy's gone and taken up with that odious Potter whelp again," Lucius related, a tiny frown creasing his unlined brow. He snorted. "Needs putting a stop to, that. Severus, old man, you did mention you weren't lingering here beyond tomorrow? Perhaps a pop into Town might be in order on your way back to old Hogs?"

"What, and do _your_ dirty work, Lucius? Why should I?" the other Wizard sneered, dark brows gathered in a habitual scowl. He sipped his brandy and lifted a saturnine arch in the blond Earl's direction, settling back more comfortably in his armchair. "I've far more interesting items on my docket than that, Malfoy; dissecting dried flobberworms, for instance. Harvesting seven-toed newts. A veritable plethora of necessary tasks to occupy me...no time to chase after recalcitrant lads, naturally. Nor school them."

"For a crack at your pet peeve, Sev. I've learnt a few things here, in Calais. Items you might find of…salient interest," Lucius Malfoy drawled. "Naught but barroom and port-of-call gossip, of course, but...significant, I'd wager." He, too, helped himself to a tot of spirits and they sat sipping in a mostly companionable silence for a short while, whilst Mr. Severus Snape considered.

Snape, unfortunately, in the Earl's opinion, was by birth half-Muggleborn, n his poor sire's side, but he'd also been Lucius Malfoy's elder at old Hogs, and then at Muggle Eton, after. And then back again to Hogwarts, first as Potions Master and then as Headmaster. The connection they'd retained was a deep and mysterious one but, suffice to say, Earl Malfoy generally made no significant move without Severus Snape's knowledge and say-so. His beloved Cissy agreed wholeheartedly; Snape was a quite deep 'un, a scholar of scholars, and a prime fellow to cultivate.

"Your cub's set up a Pharo-banque, Lucius, as well," Snape essayed, apparently apropos of nothing, his black gaze firmly on the fire crackling merrily in the room's tiny Floo. "Has Cissy entioned that, I wonder? Done well enough, though. Prinny's dancing attendance, regularly."

"I'm aware," the Earl returned grimly, nodding. "Young fool. Should let well enough alone."

"I fancy that's more to the point than diverting Major Potter, don't you?" the other Wizard asked curiously. "This venture of my godson's? T'is highly unseemly for a man of consequence, a banque. What else are clubs for, hmm?"

"Both are of importance, Severus, but I'll rely on m'wife to settle the matter of the Potter boy, if _you're_ not up to it. Depress his ill-begotten pretensions some, if you know what I mean? Never been up to a Malfoy's requirements, that get of James Potter's. Though he's all Evan's skills in Charms, I'll admit." The Earl shrugged, tossing his fine fair hair back from his high forehead. "But...afraid, are you, Sev? Of a little Wizardling like Potter? Though he's gone and garnered a masterful rep as a duellist, I hear tell. Cissy writes he's taken on that clod Amycus Carrow quite handily, just last week."

"Hmmm, Lucius, you disappoint me, woefully," Snape observed, eyeing the colour of the last of his brandy. It was a tawny gold and of excellent vintage. He was demonstrably unruffled. "That was a juvenile jab at my resolve. Have another go, do."

"Pah! Severus!" Lucius rose, chuckling, and crossed the room to open the door. He stuck his head out and shouted. "Ho! A bite to eat here, Innkeep! Wine, cheese, bread!"

"How kind of you, oh mine reluctant host," Snape remarked, piteously. He uncrossed his legs and sat forward, staring at the returning Earl intently. "To prevent my death by slow starvation on your impecunious doorstep, Lucius Malfoy. But do not seek to bribe me with pub fair or even French brandy. You know precisely what it is I want."

"The nosh here is quite decent," the Earl returned, his voice bland as fresh-churned curds. "And of course I know, Sev. You'll have to wait upon it, though—I'm sunk. Visibly so, you know, old man. Most visibly so."

Snape chuckled in turn, a deep rich sound that would've caused the Muggles and the maids who chased the Earl coattails to turn their eyes his way in a merest flash, wide and rapt. "You're never truly busted, Lucius, and of course I know that. So, don't seek to pull the wool over my eyes, either. Now, as to fair recompense for my valuable time? Surely, we can settle the method, if not the means?"

The Earl grinned at his elder acquaintance—a boyish, warm thing that quite reminded Snape of his all-too-charming only son and heir, the dashing young Viscount—and replied calmly, "You'll take my IOU, then? T'is but a moment to write it out for you."

"But of course, Malfoy. _With_ a certain guarantor," Snape shot back. "Cissy, perhaps. She, at least, can stand the nonsense. I'd say our old terms of agreement will carry over nicely, Lucius. Information provided for certain favours rendered, with Crown's evidence submitted after, naturally."

"Demned woman!" the Earl grumbled. "Why always m'wife, Sev? Always too tight with purse strings, that woman! But...fine, then—done."

"Very good. We are in accord, and all is pleasant once more. Now, to supper, mayhap? I shall need all my waning strength, I fear. Do pull out the good brandy you've cached away, Malfoy. I know for a fact you have it."

"Botheration, Sev! Allow me _some_ secrets!"

"Coxcomb, thinking to fool the likes of _me_," Snape replied suavely, Accio'ing the venerable and quite dusty bottle forthwith.

**Five: A Suite of Trusty Spades (That Old Slytherin Gang)**

Viscount Malfoy was gadding out and about, his distinctively pale head the first thing one noticed on Bond Street. He'd business to carry forward.

The Baron Goyle was his first order of the day, and run aground at last at Gentleman Jackson's pugilism establishment, in fact; where he was observed to be lazily pummeling an unfortunate man some years his elder, who boasted a bloody lip, two black eyes and a quite befuddled expression.

"Goyle," the Viscount Malfoy exclaimed curiously, "whatever are you on about? Poor McNair seems fit to expire. Has he offended you most foully or is this sport?"

Goyle grunted amiably and finished off the job, dropping the dazed gentleman in question to the sanded floor of the ring with a lovely bit of science, claret pouring from his bulbously swollen nose.

"Oh, well done!" the Viscount applauded. "Pleasure to see you keeping up with that hobby, Goyle. McNair, do take care of your health, old fellow. You'll be wanting a Healer, I don't doubt. Goyle, here, have you a moment to spare for me?"

The man on the floor groaned, limp as a stunned stoat. The Viscount gave him a jaunty nod of farewell and drew his childhood friend aside confidingly.

"Of course, Draco; always have that," the Baron replied genially, rescuing his coat and accoutrements from a hovering lackey. They made their way to one of the smaller adjacent private rooms, kept in reserve for gentlemen wishing to take a breather.

"Care to step 'round the digs for a hand of cards this evening?" the Viscount enquired, pouring a tot of Firewhiskey. "I've got up a small party. A few intimates, some of the downier Muggles—that sort."

"Don't see why not," Goyle nodded, his hefty jowl quivering. "But…Draco, are you really in a position to play? The Earl and all…"

The Viscount glared fiercely at the large, round, innocently bland face of one of his oldest acquaintances on this mortal coil. "I'm hardly pockets to let, Greg, if that's what you're on about. Can stand the nonsense, I do believe. Don't worry your head over it, Goyle; the Banque will be well-funded, I assure you. You shan't be stiffed nor sharped. I employ only my exquisitely mind and my hands, unlike some loose screws we know of," the Viscount huffed. "Indeed!"

"Oh, well. That's all right, then." Goyle had gotten his coat settled with some difficulty, shrugging it over his meaty shoulders with a series of small grunts. He'd moved on to fumbling his previously discarded Belcher neckerchief into a misshapen approximation of the latest casual fashion, his sausage-shaped fingers making a mull of it. The Viscount's meticulously perfect Waterfall was a thing of ethereal beauty in close comparison.

"Oh, here!" the Viscount exclaimed, struck to the soul with the enormity of the fashion faux pas being committed. "I say! Let me do that, you galumphing idiot. You're purely horrid at those."

"Oh, thanks so much, Draco," Goyle smiled beatifically. He was a largely innocent man, still, a lamb in bull's garb, for all he'd flown Tiger at Malfoy's flank in the recent Wars and at Waterloo and seen more than his fair share of AK's and wasting curses. "'Preciate it, I do."

"No matter," the Viscount snapped. "Now then, tell me, as I find I am terribly curious: _why _exactly were you flattening old McNair? Did he lay hands upon your current bit 'o muslin or some such?"

"Oh, no," Goyle grinned, and his moon-face was vaguely hopeful, much like a Crup pup's was when begging for table scraps. "Insulted _you_, Draco. Personally. Had to knock him down, you know, after that. Doubt he'll be good for much for the next little while."

"Insulted _me_, Greg?" the Viscount asked, raising a brow, his long hands busy at his task. "Did he, now? Curious, that. How so?"

"Called you a ponce and a nancy-boy, Draco," Greg replied simply, "and said you were more of a bleeding female than that old Beau Brummel. Always chasing breeches in place of skirt and didn't care who knew of it. More so, he said it 'neath the nose of that Muggle Lady What'sIt who's so all-inportant and the bleeding Minister of Magic, as well. Just last night, at the Opera, it was. Had to lay him low, after that. _Not_ a female, Draco. Even with the breeches."

Malfoy frowned. "No, of course not, Goyle; that's not in question...but it's hardly a crime to prefer the company of Wizards to Witches. McNair's m'father's friend. I wonder, why ever would he…?"

"It's that Lord Voldemort fellow, Draco," Greg rumbled, scowling. "Nasty sort, him. He's putting it about that it's a sin against Wizarding itself to take up with the same sex and carry on. No decent heirs to be got upon wet nurses or some such incendiary Pureblood nonsense; dilutes the line. Bloody crusading zealot, that one; got some sort of stick rammed up his arse 'bout the 'old ways', if you were to ask me! If if that were ever of any matter! 'Sides, everyone knows you're planning to get the next Malfoy properly on some moneyed puss, don't they? Why, isn't your lady mother arranging it with the Greengrasses—or is the Parkinsons? I never do recall these matters 'zactly as I should, sorry."

"There! All sorted, old chap," the Viscount pronounced, firmly interrupting the Baron and stepping backwards to admire his own handiwork. "It's neither, if you must know. And the Greengrasses and the Parkinsons are of no importance, Greg, not to this matter. And what McNair thinks—or that nefarious Lord Voldemort, for that matter—is entirely of no interest, as well, to anyone who is is anyone in the Ton. But my thanks, old chap, for the quick defense of my honour. Very handy with your fives, you are; I remember it clearly from Hogs. McNair will be thinking twice, I daresay, before he opens his silly piehole about Malfoys in public."

Goyle's face assumed an ear-to-ear grin. "Doubt he'll be able to open much of anything of consequence, old chap. Nor close it, either, for a good long while. Fixed him up properly, I did."

The Viscount clapped him on the back with brilliant cheer, the tiny frown in his grey eyes dissapating to hardly a grim gleam in sharp grey eyes. "Excellent, Goyle! That's the Hogs spirit! Now, what's old Crabbe up to, by the by? I've a fancy to invite him along as well. Nott, too, that cent-per-center, if I can but scare him up."

"Oh, well, I'm sure I couldn't say, Draco, but I'll be glad to accompany you 'round for a look-see," Goyle offered. He tossed back the shot of Firewhiskey the Viscount offered him as if it were nothing but orgeat, and grinned mightily. "Don't forget 'bout that rotter Zabini, Draco. Heard he was returned from his Grand Tour, just last week, months before he'd arranged to. Bedded that Muggle bear-leader of his, Byron, and his mother came over all Friday faced. Hauled him back from Italy by the ear, no doubt-bad luck for her propects, what?. Haunting the Season now, he is, hanging out for a fortune 'mongst the fresh lot of misses, I don't doubt."

"That Casanova? Oh, very good, then. We'll stop at Tattersall's to collect Crabbe, then; he's always fancied the Muggle horseflesh—"

"And Hatchard's for Nott, I'll warrant. You know how noddy Theo is. Likely has his head shoved in some circulating library specimen, even at this early hour. And I'd wager old Blaise is hanging after the skirts at Drury, bosky as usual. Always the same, that one."

"Perfect. We'll save him for last; give him a fighting chance to attain sobriety...perhaps. After you, Goyle, old man, after you. The day is wasting away and it's such a fine one, is it not?"

"Don't mind if I do, Draco."

With a faint pop, both gentlemen Disapparated, their course all set to rights.

**Six: Masque (Introducing the Heroines, the Misses Granger and Weasley)**

Major Harry Potter had indeed shown his famously scarred yet agrreably handsome viz at Almack's the evening previous, as duly requested, only to be descended upon by a great horde of red-headed persons, led by the irrepressible Weasley twins, Frederick and Georgie.

"Pot—" That was Frederick, first as always.

"Er! Well!" And there was the Honourable Georgie, chiming in, their tones as alike as two peas in the pod. Their common habit of conversation, and perhaps not at all oddly, was a very rapid exchange of banter; a verbal barrage conducted often at lightning speed. Major Potter, fortunately, was accustomed to this, though his neck often ached unpleasantly, after, as he attempted manfully to keep up.

"Met, Harry! Have you been-?" George went on, pumping the Major's hand effusively.

"Rusticating? M'sister's—" Frederick added, taking up Potter's other hand.

"Champing at the bit—" continued George.

"Harry. You'll want to—" That was Fred, and the Major assumed a weak smile, disengaged and retreated a pace, so he could attend both Weasley's without cracking his vertebrae.

"Make yourself scarce!" exclaimed one of them, with a flourish.

"Harry, my dear boy!" burbled the matronly Lady Weasley, coming up at broadsides, and Mr. Potter instantly made an elegant leg to her dashing get-up of midnight blue silks and a towering feathered turban, still chuckling feebly.

"Lady W," he nodded. "My good fortune, Ma'am. Sir!"

"M'boy, a very great pleasure to see the likes of you, here," nodded the affable and slightly daft Lord Weasley, and graspedf Mr. Potter's sore paw as if it were a lifeline. "Always, always, yes! How _was_ your experiment with the Muggle windmills?" he asked, immediately launching into a discussion that was of interest only to the two of them, as gentleman farmers. "Successful, I hope?"

"Most assuredly, sir," Mr. Potter replied, twinkling. "I shall call upon you with all the details, perhaps some morning next week-if that's agreeable?"

"Of course, Harry. I'll look forward to it," Lord Weasley nodded. "Eagerly. Don't forget to bring along the blueprints, will you? I've a mind to construct one of those m'self. There's more than enough room on the fallow pasturage to allow for it."

"Oh, you and your Muggles-and their silly inventions!" Lady Weasley laughed, her face wreathed with a good-natured smile. "Such nonsense! Harry, dear, I'm sure you've not spoken to our little Ginny for every so long! Do-"

"There you are, Harry!" burst out the Honourable Ronald, arriving twenty paces late and somewhat unremarkably breathless, and towing after him a young woman clad in the very height of the Season's fashion, as per requirement, yet somehow giving off an air of sweet, unadorned sensibility. Her coif, most fortunately, was a gleaming brunette in hue, a visual oasis for those in need after all that ginger abounding. "I've been waiting ages for you to arrive, Harry! What kept you?"

"Mr. Potter!" blushed the final member of the trailing, teeming Weasley horde. She lifted her pert chin, displaying a swan neck and lovely red-bronze hued ringlets, entwined all about with budding peach roses and Baby's breath. Her ballgown was of the same shade exactly: the thinnest of watered silks with a gauzy overdress of ecru lace and both gathered just below the bust with an almond-coloured satin ribbon, in the latest Empire style. "How very fortunate to encounter you here! Ronald hadn't said a word about you attending!" She turned to her brother with a flounce and a pout, both pronounced.

"That's a bald-faced lie, Ginny," the Hon. Ronald interrupted. "I did, indeed, and you were all atwitter, remember?_ I _remember, at least."

"Oh, do hush, Ron!" Miss Weasley blushed a slightly less attractive shade. "What fustian! I never!"

"Miss Weasley, Weasley, my pleasure," Mr. Potter, smiling and entirely urbane in the face of the usual Weasley assortment, made yet another leg as the Honorable Ronald blushed and stuttered through an introduction to the pretty young deb in Lady Weasley's wake. he drew her forward with the oddest look upon his open, honest face, as though he'd found leprechaun gold, perhaps, and was a tad fearful that it might yet be snatched from his clutches.

"May I present to you Miss Hermione Granger, Potter? She's recently come up from Chudley-cum-Hie, and is staying with m'parents. Mum's sponsoring her Season, as I've told you before," the Hon. Ronald nodded his bright-red head wisely, much as if _he_ knew all the ins and outs of a Ton presentation like so much clockworks and Mr. Potter maintained his determinedly bland face only with considerable effort. The twin's matching leers were unhelpful, in that endeavour.

"Miss Granger," Mr. Potter smiled yet stalwartly and again made an elegant bow. "The pleasure is, of course, all mine. Welcome to the Season, then. I do hope you're enjoying it, thus far? It's early days yet, but the wonders of Town should please you, I would hope, as they do even the most jaded. Is this your first visit here?"

"Oh, yes, as a matter of fact, it is. How perceptive of you, Mr. Potter." Miss Granger took back her hand gracefully after Potter brushed his lips across the back of her gloved wrist. "I fear I look a veritable cork-brained neck-craner, but I've truly made some rather considerable progress already with my List of Interests. I've been to the various Assembliesand Almack's, of course, and Hatchard's and the adjoining circulating libraries, but then I've yet to see Vauxhall, Drury Lane and the Astley's Amphitheatre—and then there's Rotten Row and that horse market—Tattersall's, is it not? And Fleet Street, and Newgate, and of course, Bedlam."

Mr. Potter's eyebrows quirked quizzically, but he only continued smiling pleasantly as Miss Granger assaulted his ears with a further list, a least a league long, were it to be writ out on parchment.

"Oh, my dear!" Lady Weasley tittered, flapping her fan and staunchng the learned flow at last. "Surely not all those places! The haunts for the lower classes, dear-one mustn't! It is not done!"

"But it is essential, Mama says, Lady Weasley," Miss Granger took on a very grave mien, indeed, "that one expose oneself to all manner of new experiences, be they all that is pleasant to the eye or not—"

"I'm sure, I'm sure, dear," Lady Weasley said comfortably, "that your dear Mama has strong opinions...but perhaps we may discuss this later? In private? For I believe dear Freddie here wishes to request your card?" She elbowed one of the twins with a somewhat forced smile and he immediately took up the gauntlet. "Don't you, son?"

"Oh, er, yes, Miss!" Frederick jumped, collected himself, and promptly swept out his arm to Miss Granger.

"Granger, may we both have—" added his twin, for whatever Freddie did, Georgie must, too. Mr. Potter only barely kept back a chortle and instantly averted his eyes.

"The pleasure?" Freddie finished off triumphantly. Both had their hands outstretched for the tiny pasteboard dance card attached to Miss Granger's reticule. She giggled in some small delight, blushing faintly, and then stifled it at a warning glance from Miss Ginevra Weasley. One was not encouraged to giggle aloud before the Patronesses at Almack's. Lady Weasley nodded to them both, pleased with her charges.

"May Miss Granger also waltz?" Mr. Potter enquired, after the twins had scribbled down their names on her card. "For I, too, would be most honoured."

"Oh, they both may!" Lady Weasley was fluttering with pride. "My dear Maria Sefton has permitted it, as of the very first evening we attended! Most kind of her, of course."

"Delightful," Mr. Potter smiled. "If I may, Miss Granger? I see our Ronald's left a very few dances for the rest of us. Of the waltz and the cotillion, I much prefer the former. One may converse."

"Oh, I say, Harry!" the Hon. Ronald protested, stepping forward, his dander up. "No more than the regulation two, you know! I'll not have you conversing with my—I mean to say—er." He went beet red and ceased making noise, though his mouth opened and closed several more times.

"He's much too-" Freddie observed.

"Charming with the ladies," Georgie winked, bowing at Mr. Potter in a faintly mocking manner. "Major, don't deny it. You know it's true."

"And Miss Weasley?" Mr. Potter, taking pity on the beet-red Hon. Ronald, turned to his best friend's baby sister, the apple of her parent's fond eye. "Might I also escort you 'round this crush? A waltz, too, I think, if it pleases."

"Oh, Mr. Potter!" Miss Weasley was visibly in transports, a far cry from the tomboy girl Mr. Potter recalled before the War. "Indeed, yes! I'd be-I'd be delighted, of course!"

Mr. Potter maintained his lips in a determined upward angle and, if his air of bonhomie was a bit forced, very few of the many curious eyes resting upon his famed war hero person took note.

**Seven: Couche (Revisiting the Viscount Malfoy Once More)**

"Unh!" the Viscount grunted and sank his teeth into the corner of one of his bounteous feather bed pillows. Mr. Potter emitted a similar gutteral noise of satisfaction, shoving at the Viscount's narrow pelvis with such force the nobleman nearly struck his perspiring pink scalp against his Italianate-style carven olivewood headboard.

"Brilliant, Draco," Potter bit out, withdrawing in short, sharp strokes that had the Viscount keening continuously. "So tight and hot inside your arse; so very—very—tight!"

It was the middle of the day and Major Potter had come from the Royal Opera House late the previous night, reeking of Firewhisky fumes but not at all in his cups, with a firece light in his eyes that had set the Viscount to shivering delight before he was even touched by so much as a white-gloved fingertip.

"Angh!" he replied, the clear crisp light of day mocking his creased eyelids. "Gods, Harry. Not so beastly deep, damn your eyes! You're murdering me, at this pace! Bloody plebe—always in such a tearing rush!"

But he made no move to wriggle away; couldn't, with his joints all as rubbery as that new-fangled viscous substance the Muggles used for those odd knee boots they called familiarly 'Wellies' and his long spine slung down in a low reverse arch. Could only crouch there, balanced upon his sliding kneecaps and take it, high-born arse well raised up for Plain Old Potter's pleasure and his needy whimpers not at all muffled by goosedown and satin.

"I wanted you, Draco," Potter intoned grimly, paying no heed to Malfoy's bust of temper, his mind clearly elsewhere. "Thought of you, endlessly, all these two days. D'you know just how stifling Carleton House is when all you can think of is some toplofty git's lilywhite arse? Do you even _know_?"

"I—know," the Viscount panted. He rolled his hips back frantically, when Potter grasped his dick. "I know, trust me!"

"And that scent you wear," Potter went on, his voice as severely clipped as if he were hexing the Viscount instead of shagging him mercilessly. "Your bloody hair, so fine and soft—your eyes, Draco! I can't continue to walk about as if there's nothing between us but this! I _can't_, you stupid silly rotter, and I _won't_, not for much longer!"

"Harry!" Draco moaned. "Harry—you can't! M'father—"

"Your father be damned, and the Weasleys as well, Draco! This—is—ridiculous! Ahhh!" Potter stalled mid-thrust, clenching as his cock throbbed and pulsed, lodged deep within the steamy channel that gripped him. "Ah—ah—AHHH!"

"—Coming!" the Viscount howled and jammed his entire body back reflexively, budging his arsecheeks as close as he could to Potter's straining thighs. "Oh—Merlin! Coming!" he panted, and then toppled abruptly off his knees, Potter's sweaty weight and his own enervation his comeuppance. "So…good," he whispered, and settled himself comfortably under the steam bath that was Potter's chest and sprawled limbs. "So…very, very…good." The Viscount sighed his pleasure, and closed his damp eyes gratefully.

"Don't persuade yourself for even a passing moment I don't mean that seriously, Draco," Potter informed him, a bare half hour later, as he gingerly eased on his top boots. He spelled them into a fine high polish and rose in a quick motion, reaching for his discarded dress robes. "I'm warning you of it now. Once and the once only. Don't try my patience further than you already have, Draco."

They'd closed their weary eyes for a few moments earlier to doze, exhausted, but neither were left at all sleepy when they rose. The night had been a long one, punctuated by alternating catnaps and furious shagging, and the Viscount's stomach was rumbling in a very demanding manner.

But the way they'd been wrapped together, just now—that had been sweet as honeycomb, Milord Malfoy thought wryly, though he said nought of that fancy to Mr Potter, who was all business and tucking in his shirttails. Nostalgic, in a way that left his chest aching sharply, as of old. He swung away from his huge bed and the sight of Mr/ Potter, dressing to depart, unable to bear another traipse down the rutted lane of Memory, his black silk robe flapping and billowing, revealing a long measure of pale flank and the darkening bruises Mr. Potter had left upon his fair skin.

"You shouldn't, Harry," the Viscount informed the window grimly, gazing sightlessly at the gardens falling away into the distance. Wizarding space, all of it; not even the wealthy claimed more than a block or two in Town for their own. "It'll go badly. I know it; feel it in my bones. Father is not a force to be taken lightly and neither is m'mother. And besides, Potter, you're once again making far too much of what is...what is really _only_ an ancient acquaintance with a known ne'er-do-well. Whatever has happened to your great plans of begetting proper and prim Potter heirs upon the little Weasley chit? Surely you've not abandoned it _now_, at the very beginning of the Season, when she's finally come of age? You were seen at Almack's with her just t'other evening, _and_ danced the requisite two waltzes, I believe. Good as Bonded, now."

"Draco," Potter murmured softly into the Viscount's ear, coming over to wrap his arms 'round his stiff-rumped lover of nearly a decade. "You mustn't fret your pretty little head over what's happened at Almack's—not that anything _did_, of course. Two waltzes are by no means the be-all and end-all of a proper courtship, even now. My private matters are well in hand, my love; look to your own. I don't fancy the idea of that blaggard Voldemort here, in _your_ house. Not a bit of it."

"He's a crucial player in this small amusement of mine, as it happens, Potter," the Viscount hissed. "The prime punter, in fact. And I'll thank you to take your misplaced concerns away with you. T'is _my_ business, not yours, as you've made note of." He whirled away from the window and the arms of Mr. Potter, striding toward the attached water closet, fair face all scowls. "Now be off with you. I've matters of mine own to attend and no time to waste on frivolity."

Potter smiled, long and slow and wicked 'round with the edges, with deadly intent. It was a fair dangerous grin, that, and one the Viscount would've instantly recognized from the late War, had he but glanced over his shoulder.

"We'll see, Draco. We'll see about that."


	3. Chapters Eight to Eleven

**Eight: Copper (In which the Villain of the Piece, Lord Voldemort, is finally made known)**

"My Lord," Voldemort inclined his head, and the Viscount did the same. "Well met. I see you've gathered an august company for your 'little hand of cards'."

Nothing more than the truth, as it happened. The room abounded with War heroes and noted beaux of the Wizarding Ton, not to mention the Muggle contingent. There was the Honourable Ronald and Mr. Potter, accompanied by several other heads of ginger; there was a cohort of the mighty Green-and-Silver Slytherins, all veterans of the wars. There was Arthur Wellesley himself, with such illustrious satellites as the Earls Grey and Harcourt, the Barons Grenville and Alvanley and any number of other titles, such as Paget, a force du major. The beaux of the Muggle Beau Monde were well represented, what with Brummell and Byron, Castlereagh and 'Cupid' Palmerston. All mingled fiercely, playing the social game, while they laid their bets on the baize.

"So I have," the Viscount allowed, showing his teeth, "so I have. A pleasant pastime, is it not? Kind of you to join us, Lord Voldemort."

"A pleasure, as always," Lord Voldemort sneered, and turned to glance at the flutter of cards in a nearby game. "Pharo, is it?"

"It is, though we've piquet, if you prefer it, sir," the Viscount returned. "Do join us for a round, Lord Voldemort. I've had a whole bevy of little birds advise me you're quite the able gamester."

"Indeed," Lord Voldemort returned stiffly, helping himself to one of the glasses of various alcoholic liquids the Viscount had his footmen circulating. "That has been said, true. Perhaps I will, bye and bye. I believe I've played here before—a week or so, was it not?"

"Yes," the Viscount nodded, and flashed his most social smile. "A tidy sum you took away, as I recall, along with two of my finest Thestrals. You must allow the opportunity to win them back again, Lord Voldemort."

The Lord Voldemort curled his upper lip, in what may or may not have been a social grimace, and narrowed his eyes—bloodshot, the Viscount noted, to match the puce hue of the Lord's very narrow nose—at his host.

"Perhaps. Now, if I may, I do see a game forming up. You'll excuse me, Lord Malfoy?"

"But of course," Malfoy nodded once more, being all that was amiable. "May the Lady be with you, sir."

"Voldemort, is that you?" Raikes appeared off the elder lord's starboard, hoving into sight like a fanciful flagship of the Ton. 'Apollo' was a dandy's dandy and never failed to dress the part. This evening he sported a Weston coat, cut of very dark shade of mulberry, a waistcoat of palest oyster, embroidered with silver thread, and the Beau's fashionable trousers, done up in a cider brown woolen weave. His collar points poked his chin, so starched were they, and his cravat was a wonder. "Old man, it's been ages! Wherever have you been hiding yourself? Come along, do! I've been all agog for an able Banquer."

"Oh, here and there," the Lord replied to Raike's idle question, albeit somewhat cagily, in the Viscount Malfoy's opinion.

"I do believe I will, thank you, Raikes. My Lord," Voldemort did the cobra-like bob that passed for a nod and followed the dandy off to a nearby baize-covered table, already staffed with several other well-clad gentlemen.

But the Baron Goyle and Lord Nott were at his own elbow, claiming him to be the Banque for a hand they'd got up, and he overhead no more for a solid hour or so.

Voldemort was next met browsing the cold collation, and he'd accumulated a hanger-on by then.

"Say, Lord Malfoy," chirped the most revolting little man, all ratty and scruffy, despite being in a nobleman's parlour, "it is Lord Malfoy, isn't it? Always tell by the hair—striking, yeah? Lovely place you have here, this. Is it entailed, then? Oh—I am _so_ sorry!" The short man flapped his hand and smiled in a way that was likely meant to be disarming, but failed miserably. "I'm presuming, aren't I?" His grin lengthened, revealing any number of discoloured teeth and two gold ones that glinted.

Shuddering faintly with innate distaste, the Viscount turned on his heel and pinned the boor with a frosty glare.

"Do I know you, sir?" he demanded. The Baron Goyle leant forward and loomed a bit dramatically, as only he knew how. "For I don't believe I do," Malfoy continued, grey eyes narrowed to slits, "which makes it quite inconceivable you should be present here, in my home. I'll have Charles here show you out, sir. Good night."

"Don't be so hasty, Lord Malfoy," Voldemort's voice slid into the frigid silence like an ice pick, cold and bitterly sharp. "I do believe your father and Mr. Pettigrew here are close acquaintances. Certainly, it was the Earl who introduced me. Was it not, Peter?"

Pettigrew startled, visibly jumping an inch or two, and then he smiled, all too quickly, perhaps to cover that up.

"The Earl?" he echoed. "Oh, yes, yes—the Earl!" he babbled, obviously rattled by Lord Voldemort's attention. "Exactly, Lord Malfoy," he added, taking on a sly, knowing tone not a split-second after. "Very old friends, we are, me and your father, the Earl. Most familiar, yes."

"I see," Draco made it clear by his tone that he most definitely did not see, nor could he possibly believe in a universe that contained his father, the stickler, being in any way 'very old friends' with this awful little man. "Still, I've not been personally introduced, I'm afraid. And, as this is a gathering of friends; which is to say, those whom are more intimate with me than mere acquaintances, I'm afraid that I must still ask you to depart, Mr…er-?"

"Pettigrew, Peter Pettigrew," the little man hastened to say. "At your service, milord!"

"Right. Pettigrew, then. I'll just have Charles here show you out, yes? Very go—"

"I really don't believe that's necessary, Malfoy," Lord Voldemort stuck his oar in again, his gaze intent on Draco's. "I'll vouch for him. That's good enough for a mere friendly 'hand of cards', is it not?"

The Viscount transferred his gaze to Lord Voldemort, who stood by, holding a porcelain plate with very little on it and a large tumbler of Firewhiskey.

"Perhaps, sir," the Viscount replied. He tilted his sharp chin at the hovering, obsequious Pettigrew, who'd helped himself to a rather large meal in the interim, and was balancing it, somewhat precariously, in the wooden flat of a prosthetic hand. "Funnily enough, Lord Voldemort, I often judge a man by the quality of the game he plays. Would your Mr. Pettigrew care to join me in the next hand?"

Pettigrew gulped audibly and glanced over at the Lord Voldemort with desperate eyes. A less vigilant man than the Viscount wouldn't have noticed the exquisitely faint nod passed from the Lord to his sycophant.

"Uh…er! Sure and be glad to, Lord Malfoy!" he gabbled, bobbing a bow and thinking his laden plate down haphazardly. "Show you m'mettle, alright? Not a bad hand at Pharo; not a bad hand at all! Player's advantage, right?"

"Indeed," the Viscount nodded severely. "But then there's the luck of the draw, is there not? If you will, gentleman?" He nodded in the direction of a fortunately empty table, freshly laid out with the Suite of Spades. "I will, naturally, be the Banque. Let us indulge, shall we?'

"I hear tell you often do, Lord Viscount," the Lord Voldemort remarked, a moment later, when several other players had made their way to the game. Chief amongst them was Mr. Harry Potter, who'd been circulating the perimeter throughout the evening, and winning small sums here and there as he went. Potter's luck at cards was not precisely a matter of legend, the Viscount knew, if only because the man took care not to advertize it, but it was certainly well known to his fellow War veterans. Went hand in hand with his skill in strategizing, which was only very rarely eclipsed by the Honourable Ronald's.

Draco sneered. Implication lay thick and murky on the green felt surface before them; he'd not the time now to consider the facets of Potter.

"Indulge?" he cocked a brow and took up the gauntlet Voldemort had thrown. "Why, yes, I suppose one could say that I do. Does not everyone, in this day and age?"

"In gambling," the Lord Voldemort continued smoothly, laying his bets: small ivory counters, known as _cheques_, and purchased at the beginning of the evening for a Galleon each from the Banque—Lord Malfoy, naturally. The others followed, chattering amongst themselves with anticipation. "In racing, as well—you've a fine hand with a whip _and_ a broom, do you not, my Lord?"

The Viscount nodded absentmindedly, busily shuffling. "Indeed. One might say that. All bets, punters, please."

"And the pleasures of both sexes, as well," the Lord Voldemort went on ever so softly, leaning forward nearly enough to obscure the Queen of Spades with his coat sleeve. He laid a copper on the Ace and another counter on the Three and sat back, satisfied, a look of bland curiosity playing across his narrow, rather unattractive face. "The Parkinson, I believe? And Mr. Zabini. Both are your recent conquests, are they not? Oh, and I do believe I'll copper that Queen as well, yes."

"And yours, Lord Voldemort?" the unmistakable voice of Major Potter intruded suddenly, breaking the tension between Malfoy and Voldemort. "I'm curious as to _your_ recent conquests, my Lord Voldemort, now you've introduced the subject. Though I hadn't realized that gentlemen were so given over to gossip in times of peace? Do forgive me. I'm only recently returned from the country. Rusticating, you know. Sadly out of fashion."

"Potter!" hissed the Lord Voldemort, drawing back sharply, looking very much like he'd swallowed something undesirable. "I'd not realized you were a gamester! Such sophisticated manners for a former soldier. Still, I am more than honoured to be invited here, amidst so many renowned heroes, am I not, Pettigrew?'

Pettigrew was nudged with a bony elbow and immediately commenced nodding enthusiastically.

"Oh, yes, yes, yes! That is so, my Lord. Honoured, yes. As you say."

"The Jack, then, if you please, and the Seven, too," Mr. Potter also laid out his bets, his green eyes calm and nearly opaque in their lack of expression. "Coppering that Jack. And that'll be all for me, with my thanks, sirs. Hardly 'honoured', my Lord," he went on, with barely a breath. "I am a plain man, and not often given over to betting. Weasley? I do believe you've yet to put your hand in?"

"Indeed?" Voldemort raised a thin, dark eyebrow.

"Oh, oh, sorry, Harry!" the Hon. Ronald burbled, blushing quite as red as his famous hair. "The Five then, and the Queen, yes. That'll do, for me, thanks!"

"_I_ see. Such an intriguing remark, my Lord. Goyle?" the Viscount prompted, never taking his eyes from the Lord Voldemort's face. "Are you betting?"

"Three, please," Goyle wedged his bulk between Voldemort and Pettigrew, and stuck a meaty hand over the Spades. "And Jack, too, for me. Do hope you're up to it, Potter. Trusting in your luck, I am."

"My thanks, Goyle," Potter grinned. "I'll try not to disappoint."

"Could be misinterpreted, that," the Viscount remarked vaguely, staring off across the room in no particular direction. Vincent, Lord Crabbe appeared, at his other side, glowering darkly at the Lord Voldemort.

"Could be," he grunted, in scowling agreement. "Hmmm."

"Oh, I'm sure he meant no ill will. Studying for a higher diplomatic post, are you not, Lord Voldemort? Come to cozy up with good old Arthur? Hardly like to insult you in your own home, Draco. No sense in that. Speaking of, is there room enough for me?"

A light tenor emerged from the small crowd gathered round the table. A dark-complected, very foreign-looking gentleman with a perfect Eton accent was to be seen, his dusky curls a la Brutus and his garb immaculate as any Parisian fashion plate's. "I'd choose the Nine, Malfoy, and perhaps a Two, as it's an excellent number. If you will, Nott? I can't quite manage from here."

"Pleasure, as always, Zabini," the Lord Nott—a bookish gentleman, seldom seen playing at cards-slid his way deftly between Pettigrew's other elbow and the unfortunate McNair, who still recuperating, evidently, from Gentleman Jackson's. "Allow me through. Pardon, pardon, if you please."

"Are _you_ playing, Nott?" Mr. Dean Thomas wished to know. His political caricatures were of note in the _Prophet_. "I thought you never," he added, chuckling. "Maths is too easy for you, isn't it?"

"Oh, no!" Nott replied airily. "I'm casekeeper for this game. Draco's such a persuasive lad, you know. Always gets his way."

"That he is, and that he does…most times—but not always," chuckled Potter softly, and the Hon. Ronald bumped his shoulder, hard, flushing brilliant scarlet once again.

"Shush, Harry!" he exclaimed. "I don't want to hear it! Trying to concentrate here!"

Malfoy spared them both a glare, before turning back to the table.

Brummell had drifted closer, and was observing. "So barbaric, really," he whispered to Cupid and Apollo. "Gentlemen are."

"That's so true, Brummell," Creevey agreed, tittering. "One wonders why you play, then?"

"As to the matter of my 'conquests', Lord Voldemort," the Viscount, now ready to deal, watched his main opponent carefully all the while, "I don't believe that's up for public discussion. Of course, if you care to make further insinuations, I'll be more than glad to make an appointment with you at tomorrow's dawn. There is a field, somewhat out of the way…"

"I'll second," Lord Crabbe rumbled, and only just barely held back from cracking his knuckles.

"Jack and Ten, if I may, Lord Malfoy—before you burn," the second eldest Wesley, Charles, remarked pleasantly, and his voice almost disguised the indrawn gasp that wafted through the gathered gentlemen like a little zephyr. Malfoy was known to be hot-headed; had fought quite a few duels, and too, Voldemort had been insulting, without warrant.

"And me!" Pettigrew squealed, scrabbling his counters into play. "I'm not accounted for yet, milord!"

"No," remarked Mr. Potter affably. "No, you aren't."

"That's not at all necessary, Viscount Malfoy," the Lord Voldemort replied quickly, inclining his balding pate, "Indeed, my apologies for any untoward insult. I merely meant to say that your demeanour is of the most charming, and that you've a great many…friends, it seems. A very popular fellow, you are. How delightful that I've this golden opportunity to become more closely acquainted. The Earl will be most pleased, I'm sure."

He smiled, a dreadfully insincere attempt, and more than one man present felt vaguely unclean. Charisma, which Voldemort indubitably possessed, rolled off his icy cold person in waves, but it wasn't the same sort as Wellesley's, that shining example of Muggle heroism—nor Potter's, who projected honesty like flags on a battlefield and wore righteousness and conviction like a shining mantle.

The Viscount hesitated, his pale fingers tickling gently across that topmost card. The remaining gentleman hastily laid out their previously purchased cheques, till nearly all the Suite of Spades was covered.

"Accepted," he said coolly. "For now, my Lord."

"Commence," Nott said, and the Viscount immediately withdrew the first card.

"Soda," he proclaimed, and the others nodded.

The Six had been 'burnt' off, and was out of play. Nott took charge of it, staring intently at the spread on the baize.

"Ten," the Viscount announced, and laid it to the right of the shoe.

"Damn!" Charlie Weasley swore good-naturedly. "You've always Godric's own luck, Malfoy!"

Pettigrew looked a bit stricken and several others murmured over their ill luck.

"The Jack," the Viscount said next, and laid it gently to the left. 'Carte anglaise, Potter. How apt."

"How, indeed," Potter replied evenly and they exchanged a long glance.

"If you'll do the honours, Draco?" Nott chimed in. "There's 'Dragon' Weasley, Pettigrew, Cupid—oy, Cupid! Do pay up!"

"And then your winnings, gentlemen," Malfoy smiled kindly. "Potter, of course, and Greg—well done, old man!—oh, and Dragon, too. Playing both sides, Weasley?" he asked kindly, a pile of counters shoved their various ways.

"Always, always, Malfoy," Charlie Weasley replied, chuckling. "Learn a bit about how to deal with chance, what with all those brothers."

"And the remaining cheques, milords?" the Viscount Malfoy glanced about the ring of faces. "Stand or fall? In or out?"

A scurry of activity took place, as gamesters rearranged their bets and, in some cases, removed them altogether. Chairs shuffled as players moved.

The Honorable Ron was one to withdraw. "Have to pinch my Sickles, Harry. Planning a Bonding, you know," he whispered excitedly. "Sit this one out."

"I know, I know," Potter laughed, and slapped him on the back. "Congratulations again, on your particular conquest. She's lovely."

"Stand," Lord Voldemort said.

"Stand," echoed Mr. Potter. "Paroli, then," and bent his Jack at the corner.

"All ready, gentlemen?" the Viscount inquired, after a restorative swallow of Firewhiskey.

"Commence, please," Nott smiled and an air of expectancy settled over the baize, quite covering up the lingering odour of ill-will.

And so it went on, card by card.

**Nine: Calling the Turn (In which Miss Granger demonstrates the depths of her education)**

"He's cheating!" the Hon. Ronald exclaimed. "I watched him do it, the sly bastard!"

"Counting—" Freddie popped in.

"Cards, and Pettigrew's—" Georgie interjected.

"Likely helping," Frederick announced.

"Don't you think?" George nudged Mr. Potter, who was seated by him, perched on a Hepplewhite chair.

"Despite Nott—though he's a—" George added.

"Good 'un, all 'round," Fred agreed, nodding.

"Explain, please," requested Miss Granger, decisively.

The twins did, for they, too, had taken up ranks with the Beau and had been observing Voldemort's game closely.

"Do _you_ think so, Harry?" Miss Weasley turned to her own personal Hero and batted her lashes at him. "You would know best, of course."

"I hate to think Malfoy would let it get by him; he's no fool—but, yes. Yes, I believe I do," Potter sighed. "More's the pity."

"Oh, poor Harry!" Miss Weasley exclaimed. She rose and came over to lay a consoling hand upon his shoulder. "I suppose you'll be called upon to take up for him, even though he's not precisely a…friend?'

Harry sent her a sharp glance and also rose, shrugging off the small hand politely and taking a rapid turn 'round the Weasley drawing room. An excited babble continued in the corner, as the twins and the Hon. Ronald explained the details of Pharo—and gentleman's gambling—to Miss Granger.

"Would you," he asked, after a long moment, "find that to be so unusual, Ginevra? Or…objectionable, in any way? I've known him for ages, of course. Owe it to him, rather."

Ginevra Weasley—long assumed to likely one day become Ginevra Potter—stared her beau straight in the eye.

"I've no objections, Harry, if—"

"If?

"You'll aid me, as well. There's a gentleman by the name of—"

"Still Zabini, Ginny? He's a known rake!"

"I want him," Ginny Weasley stated baldly, and folded her arms. "Truly want him. Surely you understand that part, Harry?"

"Then, Gin…" Mr. Potter drawled, returning to his chair, "I do believe we may continue to help one another."

Miss Weasley smiled, a reptilian grin that would send her lady mother scampering off straightaway to the vapours, and thence the laudanum, and nodded.

"Hermione recommends we see the Marbles next. Would you care to escort us there, Harry?"

Potter grinned. "I would."

"Aha! Eureka!" Miss Granger exclaimed. "I have it!"

"Do you now, Miss Granger," Mr. Potter was all ears as he spun about, smiling kindly. "Excellent!"

"And I know just what may be done to prevent it," she added, nodding her determined chin and making her curls bob. "Your Lord Malfoy will be required to cooperate, but it shouldn't be at all difficult. No worse than a game of 'Peas Where?'"

"Brill!" breathed Mr. Potter. "Now we're getting somewhere!"

"'Peas Where?'" echoed Miss Weasley, a puzzled frown visiting her fair brow.

"Oh, you know, Sis, the—"

"—old Shell Game," Georgie finished.

"Isn't she a marvel, Harry?" the Hon Ronald demanded. "A real bluestocking! I couldn't possibly be a more fortunate Wizard, now could I?"

**Ten: L'une pour l'autre ( or 'one for the other'; in which our two lovers brangle)**

"Harry!" the Viscount exclaimed. "I'll not consent to this! You're mad as a hatter! Never once have I allowed a gentleman I've been rogered by purchase my favours! Never once, and I'll not begin now, with you!"

The Viscount was raging, tearing about the morning room with a hard clatter of boot heels and furious storm-cloud grey eyes. He'd been at it for twenty minutes, with only a very few repetitions, and it showed no sign of ceasing.

"Objection," Potter said, calm as a grass meadow despite the tempest. "One, there was Wellesley, at Salamanca, Draco. You were drunk as a skunk and he'd just presented you with a very fine Thestral for your stud. Two, I've slid you a few Galleons, now and again, ever since Hogwarts, when you've been in the suds and exhausted your quarterly allowance. Our relations have been highly sexual in nature since we sorted out how to wank, have they not? Three, you've been buggered by all of three men, in the entirety, and the only other I know of was that Zabini blighter of your. He was also the result of a three-day bender, as you've told me repeatedly—with apologies!—so don't expect me to believe you've a legion of lovers to choose from, Malfoy! In fact, don't enact me a Cheltenham tragedy at all, please. I'm not in the mood for it."

"You are," the Viscount retorted coldly, "a boil upon the arse of the Earth, Scarhead. A rudesby, a plague upon my eyes, and an unmitigated bastard. I shall not put up with this. Do leave at once."

"Objection!" Mr. Potter exclaimed a second time, grinning feebly, as if to jolly the Viscount into a more amenable place. "My poor parents were indeed married, at Gretna, Draco, and not even the horrid Dursleys can countermand that! Do cease that infernal pacing, will you? I've the headache, now. You make me dizzy."

"I will not!" the Viscount hissed. "I'll do as I please, Potter, and I'm damnably glad your head hurts! May it fall off and—and Apparate away, for all I care! Merlin! You infuriate me!"

Mr. Potter sunk his shaggy head into his hands. He'd done this twice now, to no avail.

"Draco," he said dully, for perhaps the fifth time altogether, "would you at least _consider_ reason? We're trying to help you, you know?"

The Viscount spun 'round again and set his hands upon his hips, glaring.

"Potter, I will _not_ take your stake, not even if I were reduced to hawking my arse at Haymarket. I will _not_!"

"But he's bankrupting you, Draco! Galleon by Galleon!" Harry nearly wailed it, and gained his feet in a rush. He crossed the distance between them in no time and took the Viscount firmly by the upper arms. "I won't have it!" he stormed fiercely, giving the Viscount's shoulders a shake. "I will protect you and you will shut your gums about it and that's all there is to it, Draco! It's _my_ choice!"

"It's not mine, Potter!" Draco sneered at him. "Not mine! Get that through your thick skull, will you? I don't need you to protect me—"

"You do!"

"Nor do I want such a thing! I'm a grown man, Potter. I can guard my own flanks!"

"Fine!" Potter let go and stepped back. "Fine, you utter nincompoop! Explain this, then, if you will! How is it that when Napoleon's aerial forces outflanked us—you remember, don't you?—you and the Slytherins knew all about everything and were right there, defending? How is it that my life was saved, Draco, because you Malfoys like to play both sides and your father the Earl happened to choose mine that one particular night? Was that merely coincidence? Is that all it was?"

"Harry-!"

"And what about your mother, Draco? She'd no need to vouch for me when I was infiltrating old Boney's entourage! No need whatsoever—in fact, she'd just gone out of her way to warn me off you! Explain that, if you can!"

"Harry…that's different!"

"How? How is it different?" Potter demanded, his eyes crackling green lightning. "Why won't you let me protect the man I love, Draco?"

Draco stumbled, turning away. He found his way to the French windows, purely by instinct, and stared out. There was silence; a long painful silence, that dragged on and on with no surcease.

"Draco?" Mr. Potter's voice was for the first time hesitant. "Is it that you don't… _you_ don't—"

"Go away, Plain Old Potter!" Draco whispered inaudibly. "Stop tempting me." He drew a quick breath and spoke again. "_Leave_, Potter," he commanded, his voice much the louder, and this time there was nary a break in it. "Leave me, please. I must think on this. I will…consider. I'll give you that much, but go. Now."

Potter stepped backwards once, and then again, his eyes fixed on the rigid line of Malfoy's shoulders. One more push in the wrong direction, it seemed, would shatter them; would have the man falling to his knees.

"Very well," he said softly, carefully. "You know where to find me. But this is not over with, Malfoy. Not yet."

It was some minutes after the door had finished echoing the slam Potter gave it that the Viscount discovered his cheeks were wet. He blinked away the moisture, and drearily regarded his maze of yews.

"Odd…" he murmured, to himself, for of course the room was completely empty, save for his presence. Empty as his bedchamber had been, since Potter had last set foot in it. "Odd, how it all comes down to this."

**Eleven: Hocly (Boring prose, in which Events are recalled)**

Napoleon Bonaparte—a Squib with charisma—had done them all a favour. His mad bid for supremacy had revealed any number of counterplots against the various lawful governments of Europe. It had gathered from far and wide Witches and Wizards who touted Pureblood status above all things, and routed them out of their safeholds to stand (or fly, or bound and bite, as was the case with the horrible Fenrir) and fight for it. This, Potter's old and now Emeritus Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, had remarked early on, was key.

The current Headmaster agreed. Hogwarts, along with Durmstrang, Beauxbatons and the recently established Salem in the Americas, was an institution for educating Wizarding youth and, as such, the front line for confrontation between ideologies. The rising bourgeoisie and the blue-blooded tussled as sprigs on the Quidditch pitch, Jacobite and Roundhead striplings had fought there, as well. Most recently, it had been the adherents of Grindelwald, an exceptionally persuasive Wizard of high calibre, who espoused the view that power was a pure Absolute, existing solely for the taking by the very fittest of Wizarding folk, and thus, it behooved magical folk to do so, at any cost. Muggles, being non-magical, were veritable nonentities, and of little importance.

This credo was beguiling as a serpent's song; any number of Wizards and Witches of Snape's generation had followed it, openly or no. Thomas Riddle, a decade or so Snape's elder, and as he was known before his current elevation to Lord Voldemort, had been one of the former. He worshipped power, and disdained its consequences, but he was by no means alone in this, if perhaps a tad more fanatical.

Snape, too, raised in genteel poverty, with a hideous Muggle father and a browbeaten gentlewomen as mother, had succumbed early on to the siren lure of such politics. He was an excellent Wizard; there was no reason he shouldn't rule over others who were less worthy. It would, perhaps, serve to gain him the notice of one Lily Evans.

That venture had not panned out, sadly. Miss Evans had ultimately chosen a certain James Potter over Snape, and eloped to Gretna. Married by Muggle means and Bonded by Wizard, they'd immediately set about to produce a cub. And then, fate intervened. A carriage accident had claimed their lives when the grub was merely a year of age.

But it had been no accident. Potter the elder was known to be an outspoken defender of Muggle and Muggleborn rights; Miss Evans had been Muggleborn, by blood, though the scope of her magical power had never been in question. Their deaths had been engineered, and their child had been shunted off to the nearest blood relatives on the dam's side: the Dursleys.

T'was the Dursleys that convinced a wavering Snape that Grindlewald's way was perhaps not the best one. That, and a lingering fondness for the Incomparable Miss Evans, cut off in the flower of young womanhood, denied a chance to mother the hapless baby, Harry Potter.

To say nothing of the wily machinations and arguments of that old fox Dumbledore, who lit upon Snape as a likely apprentice.

Thus, he found himself reestablishing connections with any number of old schoolmates, with the eye to discerning which way they'd jump in open warfare. He spied, and was an agent, and a double agent, as well, for Dumbledore himself played a deep game, for all his blathering about what was Right.

Snape formed his own opinion. He liked not at all what he saw of the Dursleys and the way they treated Lily's son; he was of the opinion the host of Pureblood scions who followed after Grindlewald's teachings were naught but Pureblooded bullies, and generally rotters, in any case. He was, however, willing to plot for a little vengeance of his own and a high position as Headmaster of Hogwarts, as was promised him by Albus. White and Black, he reflected philosophically, always led to the creation of Grey.

His own jostling about for worthy connections had brought him back into contact with one Lucius, Earl Malfoy, and Cissy, his supremely Pureblooded wife, some years previous to little Harry's birth and the Potters' death. Cissy, as it turned out, had been bosom friends with Miss Evans at Hogwarts and entertained any number of relatively liberal ideas as to what was actually ethically acceptable in the quest for power. Her spouse, the Earl, seemed to exist only to seek the main chance, and to further the personal ambitions of the Malfoys. Snape, deepening the acquaintance for purposes of his own, found himself the somewhat unwilling godparent of their heir, a lively little rapscallion by the name of Draco Lucien.

The Potters then died and Harry was orphaned. Lucius Malfoy, sunk deep in the underground movement that was Grindelwald's legacy and now with hands dipped into any number of plots, apparently realized he was a parent, at last, and changed his tune, quietly. Albus stepped forward and harried a suddenly bitterly unhappy Snape under his wing, and then events moved forward yet again, albeit in a creeping fashion.

It was a hidden hand Severus Snape played, and he turned it to his advantage often more often than not, which made him a sought-after gamester and somewhat of a legend. His manners, though standoffish, were always exquisite, and he'd entrée into the finest houses in England and the Continent, no less than the Archbishop of Canterbury.

The first thing he did with his accumulated influence—as Potions Master at Hogwarts and heir apparent to Dumbledore—was conspire with Sirius Black and Remus, his ancient nemeses, for the purpose of removing Lily's child to their care. The second was chat up Riddle, the squirmy slimey bastard, with an eye toward keeping an eye on him.

No one appreciated a loose cannon, and if anyone were a likely candidate to taking on Grindelwald's dubious mantle, it was that blasted Voldemort.


	4. Chapters Twelve to Sixteen

**Twelve: Au fait (In which we meet Miss Parkinson, the anti-Heroine)**

"Do cease ogling him, Draco!" Miss Parkinson hissed. "T'is not seemly!"

"Ogling whom, dearest girl?"

"Potter, of course," Miss Parkinson, the Viscount's playmate since they were the veriest babes, replied sharply. "He's quite beyond your touch, is he not, Draco? Did you two not rather publically sever ties in Brighton, just last summer?"

Lady Titwillow's ball was in its fourth hour and, as such, even the fashionable latecomers had deigned to arrive and pay respects to the premiere Wizarding hostess. Potter had sashayed in, finally, carelessly elegant, with his black locks arranged a la Brutus, and clad soberly as usual in the Brummel's dark colours.

"That's a Weston, is it not?" Pansy enquired, eyeing Potter's midnight cutaway, though she'd just scolded her dance partner for doing the same. "He fills out his breeches very well, too, the Hero. I see why you're so fascinated, Draco, but I still put forth that you shouldn't salivate in public. So gauche."

'You're a Witch, Pans," Draco smiled grimly. "I do not ogle, and of course Potter is the merest acquaintance. We were in the War together, you'll recall."

"I recall dear Blaise relating all there was to tell of your daring midnight rescue mission, and the way the two of you shared one tent, Draco. And I recall you were thick as thieves with him at Hogwarts and quite hopelessly smitten. That's not changed in the slightest, has it?"

"Not smitten, Pans!" Draco retorted. "Malfoys are never that. We form advantageous connections, as my honoured Papa would take great pleasure informing you, should you allow him and should he ever return to his native lands."

"Oh, and how goes that, Draco? Your mother had not joined him, has she? A marital dispute? This bodes not well for any Bonding of ours, darling. Such a horrid precedent, I declare!"

Malfoy ably ignored the slur on his parent's marriage. He addressed Pansy's sardonic mention of his own possible future intentions, as per the always-incorrect gossip pages of the _Prophet_.

"We're not planning on being Bonded, Pans, and you know it!" Draco hissed, turning here sharply to avoid the enormous feet of the Hon. Ronald and his bluestocking fiancé, a Miss Granger. "We've settled that, and you know poor Nott is a plum for your taking. Reach out, m'love, and put him out of his misery."

"What? And give up another Season at Father's expense? I think not, Draco. I'll wring every Galleon out him whilst I still can; less he can shunt off to those Death Eater vultures." She slanted another glance in Harry Potter's direction, watching as he ably spun the Weasley chit. Pansy and the Weasley girl had met at several other events and she'd detected a certain Slythrin-esque air about the young lady who was so firmly ensconced in the midst of Gryffindor. Unlike Miss Granger, whom Pans despised for boasting of even more useful grey matter than even she could lay claim to, Miss Weasley's intellectual prowess was of the savvy sort, and with an eye unerringly turned to what she desired.

"Miss Weasley seems to have your Potter well in hand, Draco," she observed, merely to send the wind up her supposed beaux. "Is there any further news of when they plan to make their engagement official?'

Malfoy's face hardened, or rather, iced over. The spark of anger died out of his stormy grey eyes and Pansy felt him tightening in her grasp. He looked a bit bleak, poor fellow, and Pans allowed her expression to soften just a smidge, in sympathy. She knew all too well the hazards of yearning after one who was as thick as the _History of Hogwarts_text and twice as dense when it came to matters of the heart.

"I do not bother myself about Plain Old Potter's goings on, Pans. Nor his little romances—so very porridge plain! Tame stuff, that. Do cease your chatter about Scarhead. Tell me instead; what plans have you for tormenting poor Nott further?"

"Oh, la, Draco!" Pansy executed a fine spin, showing off a glimpse of her ankle in contrary to the edicts of Lafy Titwillow's somewhat rigid strictures. "I do not torment, Draco. I entice. Some prey are best lured in. Perhaps you should take that to heart with your Potter. Honey in place of vinegar. Or should I say, sour apples?"

The Viscount glared and his spine was rigid straight. "You overstep, Pans. I repeat, Potter is not up for discussion. Now, we are nearly at the Titwillow's meagre spread. Would you care for a glass of lemonade?"

"I'd care more for a glass of Firewhiskey, Draco," Pans twinkled, "but well I know how that would fly. I shall pass on the offer of lemonade, thank you. If you'll just return me to my mother? She's all smiles, is she not? No doubt counting over the Malfoy Galleons already."

"How you put up with her, I know not, Pans," Draco commiserated. "Such an intimidating dragon!"

"Draco!" Pansy gave him a stern glare, just as he was about to bow her back into the presence of her reptilian parent. "Draco, you, too, are as much a hero as that Scarhead of yours and you, too, are allowed a measure of joy. Do not lose sight of that in this social maelstrom we so laughingly term the Season."

The Viscount nodded gravely, and delivered her over. "A pleasant exercise, Miss Parkinson, as always. My thanks."

Lady Parkinson waxed effusive for a few moments over the Viscount's charms, during which the much discussed Potter disappeared from view, having returned the Weasley chit to her ginger-haired mater, who resembled nothing so much this evening as a lavender schooner under full sail.

The Viscount winced as he retreated. He dearly hoped Potter paid attention to that old saw: 'If you wish to wed the daughter, look to the mother first-to see if you can stomach the future.'

Lady Titwillow had not stinted on her refreshments. The Viscount dined lightly on a plate of delicacies—all of French origin, as the English certainly weren't engaged in a battle against their cuisine—and then made his way about the confines of the ballroom, nodding, smiling and exchanging a word here and there with well-heeled gentlemen who might find a discreet Pharo-Banque to their interest. The dowagers cooed, as was their wont whenever Malfoy was to be seen navigating the seas of High Society, and the debs fanned themselves in droves and whispered over his cool, elegant beauty.

But there was no Potter and he was more than ripe to visibly snub the little runt. Grimacing his ire, the Viscount found his way to his host's Library, to indulge in a glass of Firewhiskey and buck up his flagging social spirits.

He was engaged in lounging back on a rather pleasantly upholstered armchair when the glass—nearly empty-was removed from his fingers.

"Took you long enough, Malfoy."

"Well, well," the Viscount drawled, craning his neck back to slit his eyes at Potter's grinning viz, "If it isn't the Major Do-gooder. Come to dance attendance on the Weasleyette, Scarhead?"

"No more than you've come to further your overlong courtship of the Parkinson, Draco," Potter replied. He stepped round the Viscount well-cushioned armchair and possessed himself firmly of Draco's fine-boned wrists. "Come up," he ordered. "I can't get at you there, and that, old chap, is what's on the cards for the evening."

"Potter," the Viscount replied calmly, resisting budging an inch for all he was worth. "Leave off. We'll be discovered."

Potter grinned again, and tugged a snowy kerchief from his waistcoat. "Don't believe so, Draco. Not with this." He flourished into a much larger rectangle, and it shaded into a silvery nimbus of ethereal fabric.

"That old thing, Potter?" Draco sniped, raising his brows. "Do you never cease to show off your many and varied possessions? Acquire something new, if you please. You've the funds."

"Ugh, wanker! Up!" The Viscount did, indeed, do just that, when Potter exerted a bit more force. "Enough lip, Draco. You've made me send the hounds after you for days, now, you wily fox. I'm here to remind you of what you're missing, ducking here and there to avoid me."

"What?"

The Viscount was maneuvered skillfully up against a handy arras, and found himself—and Potter—enveloped in a magical cloak. Potter's inheritance from his father, of course, and damned handy it had been during the War. And at Hogwarts, when they'd snuck out of their respective Houses for a little Inter-House Unity by the Lake.

"No!" the Viscount protested, faintly. He hadn't his heart in it, though. "I shan't, Potter! I'm not touching the Weasleyette's leavings! Not tonight!"

"Jealous, my little spitfire?" Potter was sparkling with glee. And challenge. The suave, severe Malfoy hated above all things to be mocked—or ignored. But such teasing, Mr. Potter had discovered, was beneficial in his effort to force the Lord into abandoning his noted control.

The Viscount froze him with stare. "Hardly. She's welcome to you, Plain Old Potter. _Omph_!"

Potter grasped his chin and nape and snogged him, good and hard, stealing his breath away and a large part of his resistance.

"Is she?" he chuckled. "I quite disagree, Draco. I'm a little more chary of my favours than that," Potter replied, shaking his curly mop in reproval. "Come now, at least say you're jealous. Make it up to me, old man. My foundations are quaking. I lose confidence by the moment."

"You're mad!" the Viscount gasped, and gave into the overweening urge to lay his hands on Potter's skintight black breeches. He tugged at them fruitlessly and then whispered a Charm. "A Bedlamite, rather, if you think I'll—"

"I rather think I'll fuck you into the wall, Draco," Potter smiled, when he lifted his lips for the second time. "Right now."

He knocked the Viscount's knees apart with a well-placed leg and snapped his fingers.

"No time for the usual preparations, Draco. Take a breath and jump up, will you?"

"You know you can't manage my weight, Potter!" the Viscount protested, even as he did so. "We'll fall—"

"We won't. I have you," Potter soothed, and eased the Viscount's one leg more firmly 'round his waist. His pants had been pulled down and were wrinkling against his boot tops, but that could all be set right in a moment. "Steady on, now, Draco. Hold fast—just like riding a broomstick, isn't it?"

The Viscount wriggled when his arse was instantly penetrated: one long finger poking away, buried beyond the knuckle and laden with a generous amount of almond-scented oil. "Merlin, Potter!" he exclaimed, gasping. "Are you always this hurried?"

"You should know, Draco," Potter replied evenly. "As you take the brunt of it. Now breathe in and relax. I'm starting."

"Ack!" Malfoy had sensibly given up on any sort of protest, finding them all useless. Now he squirmed, and visibly concentrated on making room for the flesh forcing its way into him, heavy and cauldron-hot, and perfect for filling up that lingering ache he'd been carrying about with him. "Harry! Go slower! It's been a nearly a week, you prat!"

"Mmmm," Potter murmured, and buried his flushed face against Malfoy's collar points, nosing into his mussed hair. "Scratches, damn it, these. Too much starch, Draco—tell your valet. They go, as well."

The Viscount, now entirely free of his fashionable garb at Potter's whispered Charm, allowed his heavy head to tip back against the wall. Potter was fully seated when it struck him.

"What do you mean, 'the brunt of it'? Are you sharing out your cock indiscriminately, Potter?" he demanded querulously, lifting his blond head up to glare furiously. "You unmitigated prick!"

"Hush, love," Potter murmured. "Of course I'm not. You idiot."

The Viscount pouted, an expression he'd be loath to admit he used regular on Mr. Potter. He preferred to think of it as scowling, but it was a far cry from the stony expression that was his sneer.

"Not an idiot, Potter. Nor a fool, either," he grumbled. "Ah! That's too much—ease off, man!"

"No," Potter said. He thrust harder, and the Viscount moaned instantly at it. "No, I think not. You need to remember exactly who it is that fucks you, Draco. Who wants you, no matter what games you play."

"Ungh! Harry, please!" Malfoy, however, was very far from an introspective state. He writhed and the cloak slipped, the arras twisting against the plastered wall behind him. "Harry!"

"Silencio!" Potter growled, and got vastly serious about his chosen task. He edged up the pace, all the skill of his fine whip hand showing. Here was the champion of the skies, the master of the Broom, as Wellington had called him. The Hero, triumphant. "You're mine, you fool. Admit it!"

"No!"

His arse was being drilled open, the Viscount was sure. He was pinned and by none other than that most proper Plain Old Potter. It was inelegant and lowering and sinfully delicious. He moaned, only wanting more of it. Met Potter's hips as they snapped forward, and lapped his seeking tongue over the cleft chin and pink mouth. Potter bit his full lower lip, red now with abuse, and opened his jaw to swallow the Viscount's muffled noises.

Not once, in all the years between them, had the passion flagged. It mattered not where nor when, nor what the circumstances; if Potter required him to bend over, Malfoy would. Gladly. He did so now, though not literally, and relished it.

"Uh, uh, uh!" he stuttered, the twist of nerve within him quivering. "Ah—ah, Harry…more!"

"More," Potter echoed, and impelled himself into Malfoy ever faster, till the plastered rosettes on the wall behind them seemed in danger of chipping. "More!"

"…yours, al—ways!" the Viscount groaned, and his eyes, almost fully black with blown pupil, widened as his ejaculation bowled him over. "Yours…only ever yours, stupid Potter," he cried out feebly, his dick spurting all over the gilt threads and fabric covered buttons of Potter's vest, and even onto his watch-chain.

"Mmmm, gods, yes! You—are—_that_!"

Potter nodded vigorously and gripped his hips, dragging Malfoy's arse so tight the blood was constricted in his veins where creamy flesh creased. He pounded and pummeled, all the science of the boxing rink brought to bear on a target already long defeated, and then shouted—a low wordless bellow of the triumphant male beast.

"Oh, I say!" Miss Ginevra Weasley burst into the room, closely pursued by Count Zabini. "Leave me alone, you scurrilous wastrel!"

"Disillusio!" Draco managed faintly, fumbling a feeble hand up and rapping himself and Potter on the pate, one right after the other. "Disillusio! Merlin, Potter—you _are_an excitable idiot, aren't you?"

**Thirteen: Putting up the Mug (in which Lord Voldemort sets the stage for disaster)**

"I do believe," Lord Voldemort steepled his fingertips and stared 'round the table at his various underlings, "it's time to strike. Young Malfoy's deep in the suds; that spineless twat of an Earl is secreted away on the Continent and Potter's occupied with his own _affaires du couer_. He'll not lift a finger and the way to Prinny will be left wide open."

"But, but, milord!" Peter Pettigrew spoke in an ingratiating whinge, as always. "I thought you hated them ruddy aristo Muggles?"

"Silence!" thundered Voldemort, raising a palm. "Cretin! Of course I despise them—don't we all?" Nods were given, along with a muted scattering of 'Hear, hear's' from a few of the younger Wizards. "But they have their uses, yet. Fudge is nearly done, and that Muggle disaster of a Regent won't utter a single contrary word against his replacement once I've removed those contemptible Malfoys from the picture. We shall roll right over them, like a juggernaught!"

'My Lord," piped up young Thaddeus Snort, a baronet from the Low Countries, "you mean to disgrace them, then? The Malfoys?"

"The name Malfoy shall be as an anathema," Lord Voldemort sneered, "fitting recompense for hideous betrayal and an unseemly arrogance."

"How wonderful," Lord Snape remarked dryly. He exchanged a saturnine smile with Lord Voldemort. "Your ambitions, milord, cometh to a fine fruition. The world will be better place without that scheming two-faced lot."

"And their ill-got fortunes will be better put to use at our direction, Lord Snape," Voldemort reminded him, liver-red lips spread in a thin attempt at a knowing grin. "All those Galleons will buy many a broom for our forces, and their holdings will house our ever-growing numbers."

"But, my Lord," Snape went on, delicately, dabbing at his lips with a serviette after his sip of port, "you are certain the upstart Potter will not act? He is—rightly, may I add?-reputed to be daft as houses, after all."

"Potter and Malfoy heir have fallen out; didn't you know, Snapey, old chap?" This query was issued by one Lord Bergamot, of the Marches. He was known to be a bit of a bounder by the dowagers and all his ploys to marry money had failed. Perhaps that explained the gleam in his eyes at the mention of Malfoy's soon-to-be-parted Galleons. "Highly visible, it was, just last summer, at Brighton Pavillion. Talk of the Ton for weeks after."

"All to the better, then," Voldemort chuckled, and more than one gentleman present shivered. The Lord stroked his familiar, a very large serpent imported from the Indies, and bared his teeth again in that horrid grimace that passed for a smile. "Potter's not on his guard, and the Malfoy cub won't bother guarding his flank. Fenrir, old man, I do believe your 'special services' will be required, at last."

**Fourteen: Parlour Games (In which certain persons are discovered!)**

"How dare you, sirrah?" Miss Weasley gasped, caught up as she was in the strong arms of the known Casanova of Slytherin, Blaise Zabini. "Unhand me at once!"

"But, my very dear, you don't want actually wish me to, do you?" Count Zabini asked, most reasonably, his accent all that was proper despite his foreign moniker.

He, too, had attended Hogwarts, sent there by an oft-widowed English mother, and then the Muggle Oxford after, pursuing a study of economics. Tattle was, he'd hordes of Galleons invested in the Wizarding 'Change, yet more guineas in the Muggle one, and millions more in estates in various countries abroad. A Weasley—always foundering on the tight edge, given that there were so bloody many of them to provide for—would be well-served to marry such as well-heeled young man, foreign antecedents aside. He'd only gone scot-free of hunting matrons and debutantes thus far due to his reputation as a rake of the highest order.

Zabini, the oily rake, kissed the demure Miss Weasley, who promptly returned fire.

"There now, ma cherie, mon amour" Zabini murmured, after, "I knew you didn't want me to, really."

So saying, he pressed his manly lips to Miss Weasley's blushing ones once more and they fell, somewhat inelegantly, onto the sopha. They sprawled there, entwined, and additional lip-to-lip communication ensued.

"'Merlin's Beard, Potter!" hissed Malfoy, struggling up, and hastily averting his eyes from the sight of a Weasley, snogging, "how are we to get out now? We're trapped, thanks to you!"

"Who says," Potter latched onto the Viscount and tumbled him off his pins once more, so he landed in a heap in Potter's naked lap, "that I'm ready to go? I was just beginning to actually enjoy this rout. Such a crush, even in the private rooms!"

"Imbecile!" Malfoy flushed. "People will notice!"

"No, they won't, Malfoy," Potter replied, being all that was logical. "If they notice our absence, they'll merely think we've gone off our separate ways. T'is nothing unusual."

"I've another engagement, you twat," Malfoy was not at all appeased, "which I shall be damnably tardy to. Now, leave go, arse, and I may forgive you!"

Mr. Potter smiled, a secretive yet pleased curl of the lips, for he'd noticed the Viscount had uttered not a word as to the rather dubious presence of Mr. Potter's supposed affianced in the arms of a known rakehell.

"I do," he murmured, gathering a grumbling nobleman more firmly into his arms, "admit freely to a great fondness for you, Malfoy. Never doubt it. Now, come. They don't see us and I hardly think you're satisfied. Indulge me."

"Prick—oomph!" the Viscount exclaimed, as his limbs were rearranged, by hastily grabbed wrist and hip and huffing ribcage. The slippery folds of the cloak slid across skin already well sensitized, and his bum was turned topsy-turvey and exposed to Potter's gaze, still shiny with the remains of the previous bout of sexual hijinks. "Careful, there! Visible bruising is still not at all acceptable, Potter!"

"Hmm," Potter, from what the Viscount could discern, his highborn face flattened into the Aubusson, was contemplating. "You do smell most delectable, Draco. And you look a lovely treat, like this. I believe a light snack is in order before we depart."

"Potter!" shrieked the unfortunate Viscount, wriggling madly. "You wouldn't!"

Without further ado, the redoubtable Mr. Potter buried his beak—broken once by Malfoy in a fit of pique and repaired by the dizzy Miss Lovegood—into the Viscount's arse. He commenced to lick, and then suck, and the Viscount shifted his vocalizations from protests to whimpers for 'More!'

"Oh, I say!" exclaimed Mr. Percy Weasley, most officious Weasley scion of the lot of them, as he burst into the Titwillow's private Library unannounced. "You utter wastrel, Zabini! Unhand m'sister _at once_!"

**Fifteen: Splits (In which Mr. Potter alights upon a Scheme)**

"Well then, Mr. Potter," Miss Granger stated firmly, the following afternoon, "we'll have to infiltrate. Loan us some appropriate male clothing, if you please."

"What!" roared the Hon Ronald. "No! Absolutely not! I won't have it! Far, far too dangerous!"

"Hmmm," Mr. Potter rubbed his chin. "That might, perhaps, be a workable scheme. It may fly, indeed."

"Of course it will be workable, Harry," chimed in Miss Weasley, not at all demure even after the dressing down her lady mother had delivered her. "How many evenings have we all spent putting on amateur theatricals? No one will suspect in the slightest."

"Oh, no!" rumbled the Hon. Ronald, pointing a quivering finger at his daintily attired younger sister. "Not you, too, young miss! That's beyond enough!"

"But, little Ronniekins—" interjected Freddie.

"Why ever not?" asked Georgie. "It'll be—"

"A lark of the—"

"First order!"

"That settles it, then," Miss Granger pronounced. "Mr. Weasley, may I beg of escort to Vauxhall, perhaps this coming Friday evening?"

"What?" the Honourable Ronald seemed taken aback by what was an abrupt change of conversational flow. "Of course, my love, but I hardly think that's the most elegant of destinations. Perhaps we should consult m'mother-"

"And Harry," Miss Weasley jumped in, as she was wont to do, having shed her maidenly blushes in favour of her familiar tomboyish energy, "you'll attend us, of course?"

Mr. Potter smiled, long and slow, nodding. "He shan't know what's hit him, the little sod."

"What, who?" George inquired artlessly, tilting his chin and coming up off the corner of the couch where he'd been perched.

"Malfoy or Voldemort, Harry?" Frederick zeroed in, and stood to take his brother's arm. They strolled off the door, radiating curiosity. "Which?"

"One?" George finished.

"Either," Mr. Potter answered, grinning a crocodilian sort of smile, one which sat oddly well on his lean face.

"Both!" Miss Granger added and rose herself. "That's settled, then. Come along, Ginny dear. We've arrangements to make and we've yet to convince Lady Weasley to allow you to slip reins sometime before Domesday. Twins, I shall expect your complete cooperation."

"Yes—"

"Ma'am!"

"No! No, no, no and _no_!" the Hon. Ronald stuttered, still feebly pointing, having gone fish-belly pale and gasping. "You're all mad! Candidates for Bedlam, every one! I won't be part of this, I tell you! Count me out!"

**Sixteen: Abacus (The numerical pitfalls of gambling)**

"Not your finest call, old man, Pharo," observed Lord Nott. "No advantage, really.'

"Oh, stuff it, Theo," the Viscount snorted. "I'd like to see you do better!"

"Really, he's correct, Malfoy," Count Zabini nodded. "Not much there to work with; highest advantage to the punters, you know."

"Untrue, Zabini!" the Viscount retorted. 'There's any number of ways one may retain control of the odds!"

'Not legally, my friend," Nott shook his head. "Not unless you're counting cards. Or is it a gaffed box all along, then?"

"And who says I've not been?" demanded the Viscount, and downed his port. "Every Banquer worth his salt knows exactly what's in the box! Goyle, you've been watching every hand. What've you observed?"

"_He's_counting," Goyle replied slowly, his bovine eyes flickering into brilliant life. "As m'father said 'ere he passed so tragically, Voldie's a bad'un. Have to keep a close eye on 'em, all the day long."

"Well, then," shrugged Nott. "Settles it."

"Mmm-hmm," agreed Zabini. "Does indeed."

"I'm _aware_, you lot!" Malfoy announced. "You don't think my father would allow me, his only heir, to go out in the world and not know every trick in the books? Of course he's counting, and likely the decks have all been gaffed, even before Flourish & Blott's delivers them! I'm not born yesterday, Nott!"

"Never claimed you were, old man," Nott mumbled and looked deep into his balloon snifter. He preferred the Malfoy's famous selection of pre-Napoleonic brandies, laid down by old Abraxas and covetously watched over by Dimble, the Malfoy's warden.

"Then, your plan, Malfoy?" Zabini asked, as though it were a matter of little interest to him, He swung a well-shod foot, from his careless sprawl over the sopha where the young lord and master had been buggered, just recently, by Potter. "You do have one, I s'pose? For I've other matters of interest to occupy me, you realize."

Lord Crabbe, a reticent fellow, rumbled, and they all took a moment to blink at him dubiously until they twigged he was chuckling.

"Games with Gryffindor spitfires, Zabini?" Crabbe snorted. "You're as smitten as Potter is, with our fair Draco, here."

"Crabbe!" growled the Viscount, frowning, "shut your demmed gob, will you? Who married a Muggleborn, then?"

"And Potter, speaking of?" Nott brought his head up sharply. "He's a player, Draco. Don't tell me you've forgotten?"

"Of course not!" Draco, supremely irritated, sprang up and took a turn around the capacious room. "And Potter's been diverted. The Honourable Ron's got him bundled off to Vauxhall tomorrow evening. He shan't be in evidence, trust me. All properly sorted, these niggling details."

"And your _plan_, Draco?" Nott asked again, quite insistently. "You were just going to go over it…in deatil?"

"Yes," interrupted a deep rich voice, one that alternately thrilled and terrified any number of years of Hogwarts Potions students. "I, too, find that topic to be of enthralling interest. Do explicate without further ado, Godson."

"Godfather!" exclaimed the Viscount. He strode across the room, and clasped the elder Wizard's hand in a fervent grip. "Such a pleasant surprise! Did that old reprobate dare to accompany you? I've a few choice words saved up for him!"

A pale blond head peered past the severe black robed shoulder of Hogwart's current Headmaster.

"You hardly have cause to vilify me, son," the Earl observed mildly, "as I've gone to a great deal of botheration on your behalf. Your mother sends her fondest regards, by the by. Nott!" he snapped.

"S-Sir?" Lord Nott gulped, having politely risen.

"Is that _my_ brandy?"


	5. Chapters Seventeen to Nineteen

**Seventeen: Stringing the Bets (in which the Ladies practise their meddling)**

"I hardly call that sporting," complained Miss Parkinson, glaring at Miss Weasley over teacups and little cakes abounding. "Miss Granger, you are encouraging her to be naughty, admit it!"

"Oh, pooh! It's only because your harridan of a mother won't bestow her permission, Pansy! Don't be huffy with poor Hermione, here. She can't help it if she's been elected the brains of the operation!"

"Exactly the issue!" Pansy scowled, wrinkling her snub nose. Some said it made her resemble a small Muggle dog; others toasted her loveliness—_and_ the loveliness of her father's purported millions of Galleons. "I, too, have been known to summon up a well-laid scheme—upon occasion. You value me too low, ladies!"

"Oh, but I do recall clearly, believe me!" Miss Granger interrupted, baring her very white teeth. "Your cuning is legion, Missy! That incident when we visited Hogwarts for the TriWizard shall not be forgotten any time soon! But do go on, Miss Parkinson. You're intimating, I believe, that you wish to join our party?"

"Precisely," Pansy replied, nodding sharply. "And all alterations to hair colour aside, this is to your benefit, Miss Granger. It requires a Slytherin to understand a Slytherin, naturally, and you are all, to a one, sadly Gryffindors, even your precious Plain Old Potter. I shall indeed make myself one of your party and, for the sake of parity, I shall be bringing along dear Millie Bulstrode. She's most useful when one is in difficulties."

"Pish tosh!" Miss Granger bit into her biscuit and chewed with ladylike brevity. Swallowing and topping off the mouthful of shortbread with a sip of Oolong, she glared. "We don't require a strong-arm, Parkinson! 'Sides, we shall give ourselves away, with so many females."

"Not at all, Granger," Pansy shot back, and sipped her tea. "There's footmen and Muggle servants aplenty in dear Draco's townhome, are there not? Not everyone must be garbed as a sprig of fashion or a passing country bumpkin's heir to pass. I fancy donning those silver-grey breeches myself; you are aware of the livery Malfoy outfits all his servants in? Why, it's _most_ becomingly attractive—for one who can honestly claim a passable figure!"

"Now, now—" Miss Weasley, watching the interchange dubiously, made attempts to intercede, as Miss Granger visibly swelled with indignation. "Ladies—!"

"Firstly, I'll have you know I'm credited with a very fine arse! Secondly, you will _not_ insult Harry, Parkinson!" Miss Granger hissed. "I may've attended Beauxbatons and because of that not been part of your Scottish hijinks at Hogwarts but only very briefly, but Harry and I have become fast friends these last few weeks! He's the same as a long-lost brother to me—nay, closer yet! Not nearly as irksome as a brother. But! In any case, he's hardly to be scoffed at! Stuff it, do, Parkinson—your serpentine schemes are not needed here."

"Oh, my dear," Miss Parkinson chuckled, and for once a deep charm illuminated her sharp, opportunistic features, "as if I'd harm a hair on his dear little head! Draco would murder me twelve times over before breakfast, I'm sure! I hardly fancy being sent off to my just rewards before I've sipped my morning chocolate! Besides, your Potter's not a fool, nor wet behind his pretty ears, and I've never claimed so. I've heard tell of any number of Slythindor escapades during the War, all authored by your personal Hero!"

"Well!" Miss Granger huffed, but then seemed to settle. "Slythindor, eh? Hmm…" She considered that concept, tilting her stubborn chin and subjecting their visitor to a very thorough once-over. "Huh. Very well, then. If that's clear, Parkinson, I s'pose I don't see why not. Reinforcements are always acceptable, and we may have to overpower that horrid old cardsharp. Perhaps even your Bulstode might prove useful."

"Miss Granger!" Pansy Parkinson went from amused to grave in an instant. She straightened in her seat, instantly serious. "_Don't_ underestimate him. Lord Voldemort is an evil man. Quite, quite perverse. And more than a bit of an evil genius. He's had my parents quietly under his thumb for years now, and bled Papa nearly dry in the process, by means of blackmail. He means to seize as much as he possibly can, and more. You mustn't think this is merely another form of girlish entertainment during the Season. It is, most definitely, not!"

"I don't, Miss Parkinson," Miss Granger had assumed her most bookish look, head cocked inquisitively and pert chin at an angle. "I've done my research, trust me. As has Harry, so…yes. It_ is_ best we cooperate, perhaps. All hands together make the task light."

"Very well, we are in accord, then," Miss Parkinson glanced over at the paltry array of cakes left over, which wasn't impressive after three healthy young ladies of the Ton had taken tea. She sneered at the disappointingly emptied platter and turned back to her most recently acquired bosom beaux, Miss Weasley. "Weasley, I declare, your house elves are sadly behind the times. It's twenty pastries per person, not a mere twelve! Has your mother not taught you proper manners?"

"Oh, stuff it, you cow!" Miss Weasley burst out laughing, and threw a spare _petit fours_ at Miss Parkinson's daring dark blue ensemble. "Mind your stays, greedy boots! You'll burst them!"

**Eighteen: Shuffling the Deck (in which the Player's positions are set)**

"All clear?" asked the Honourable Ronald.

"Aye—"

"Mate! Fire—"

"Away!"

"I don't like this! I _really_ don't like this at all!" groaned the Hon. Ronald, but he offered each of his arms to a young lady and Apparated from their meeting point deep in the heart of Vauxhall's famed Walks to the servant's entrance at the rear of Malfoy House, Belgravia.

"Do take note, Hermione!" he whispered rather urgently to his fiancé, currently clad in breeches, waistcoat and all the finery of a Malfoy man-a-waiting, and looking rather fetching because of it. "We'll not be engaged in such flibbertigibbiting about when we're married! I'll not have it! A quiet life, that's the ticket!"

"Fustian!" Miss Granger replied, sternly. "You're as bad as that milquetoast Percy, Ronald!" and then ignored him roundly.

For a moment, there were only the staccato sounds of repeated pops, as the rest of the party joined the Weasleys and Miss Granger. Then the door to the kitchens swung open slightly and it was quiet again, the gaggle of 'hired Muggle help' having been ushered discreetly indoors.

Inside the bastion of fashionable nobility, there were any number of gentlemen, bent intently over tables of baize, and the sound of continuous chatter and flapping pasteboard as cards turned. Whoever had said females were the worst gossips had not spent much quality time with the male of the species.

"Did you hear about Brummell?" was the question on all the Muggle's lips. "Such a pity!"

"Always did believe he was a bounder, Apollo."

"Oh, I know, Cupid, but his cravats! Poetry, old man—pure poetry!"

"You know, Malfoy's nearly sunk," murmured any number of lesser Wizards, peering about them and wondering if the contents of the Malfoy stables would soon be up for sale at the Wizarding Tattersall's. "Bound for Newgate in a beggar's cart, the rapscallion. Always knew he ran with a dangerous crowd!"

"Hasn't paid his tradesmen in absolute ages, I heard. Up the River Tick."

"Oh, but old chap, who does?"

"Point."

"Fasse!"

"Quinze et le va, Taillèur!"

The Viscount, who'd been tucked into bed by a careful Potter in the early hours of dawn, sat gingerly within his Banquer's cutaway at the premier baize-covered table. His arse was sore from repeated assaults and his nipples still throbbed. Potter had been quite, quite unbearably careful, though, and he'd only himself to blame, for wanting it rough. For demanding it that way, though he knew full well Potter was already on thin edge. But what else was he to do, after having suffered the unbearable insult of shrieking his Muffliato'd ejaculation in a room full of Weasleys?

Especially the girl Weasley, for whose sake Scarhead had so publicly dropped him. Brighton had been the nadir of the Viscount's young existence and never again would he allow his lover that absolute degree of power over his emotions.

No, he'd pursue his own course, and brunet, green-eyed, soberly-clad Wizards be damned!

"Sleep, Draco," Potter had ordered him, his lips tickling Draco's ear. "I'll stop in this evening, later, after I'm done with Vauxhall. And you make certain to guard that pretty little bum of yours if you do venture out—I want it pristine when I return," that same irritating Wizard had murmured, not twelve hours previous. "Take no chances, alright? There's gossip going about already about us. I'll not abide it."

Draco had grunted wordlessly his ire over being ordered about like a mere flunky and his general sense of discontent at Potter's high-handed attitude. What Potter would or would not abide was no longer Draco's concern!

"Seriously, love," Potter was insistent. "I'll not have you take the brunt of the biddies' tongues. Keep your head."

"Mmmphf!" he sputtered, by which he may've meant 'Fuck off, Potter!' or possibly 'Fuck _me_, Potter!' but Potter was gone before the Viscount could summon the gumption to decide.

It was a quandary, this night. Lord Voldemort had determinedly emptied the Viscount's personal coffers over the past few weeks, perhaps not with the flare and sleight-of-hand he'd displayed whilst routing the Viscount's father, the Earl, but steadily, all the same. And Draco had allowed it. Encouraged it, indeed, as bait for a hunt. And had taken note of every sanded and shaved card-edge, every blot of sepia ink almost too small to see and every move that scoundrel 'Silver-Hand' Pettigrew had made, as Lord Voldemort's pet casekeep.

It was abominable, yes, and the Viscount planned to put a stop to it. Voldemort had fleeced just one too many when he chose to target a Malfoy, and Voldemort would pay. Not to mention, the ugly rumours Crabbe had mentioned flying about concerning Potter's safety. His Scarheadness was admittedly not abreast of all the gossip, but one did not take the threat of possible lycanthropy lightly.

But was it the proper time? the Viscount wondered, surveying his personal gaming hell. True enough, Prinny was present and the Lord Voldemort was currently glued to his elbow, courting favours. The Regent's closest friends and advisors—some Muggles, some Wizards—also crowded the many little Pharo-Banques the Viscount had laid ready for their pleasure. The Silver-and-Green contingent was naturally in place at every one, playing Banquer or casekeeper or punter as necessary. All was well, and in readiness, just as he schemed. Except—and it was a monumental exception, and not at all in the card—Draco had just been dragooned into Banquing the table that hosted both Plain Old Harry Potter and the flushed and obviously inebriated Honourable Ron Weasley.

Demned Potter!

The pathetic prat had sworn he was to attend a musicale at Vauxhall Gardens in the company of the Weasley chit and then be occupied strolling the gardens until the celebrated fireworks were begun. He'd practically written out an oath that he'd be elsewhere, this eve. The Viscount had assumed, incorrectly, that if Plain Old Potter showed his face upon his doorstep, it would be well after he'd the pleasure of dealing summarily with the cheating Lord Voldemort, once and for all.

For the Viscount had a Scheme, and a fine example it was, worthy of Slytherin himself. Spruced up a bit by the additional and somewhat unconventional wisdom of his Papa, the Earl, (currently ensconced in the Viscount's study, catching up on the gossip via elderly issues of the Prophet) and the Viscount's trusted godfather, Lord Snape. But now likely doomed to failure, all because of one stupid Gryffindor, who knew not when to let well enough alone!

"Demned Potter!" the Viscount swore softly. "Bets, gentlemen, if you please. I shall shuffle."

"Excuse me, milord?" A young gent who looked to be no more than twenty leant his head nearer Draco's. "What's that you say? Power?"

"_Bets_, sirrah," sneered Draco, and the cards between his hands fanned prettily and slide together perfectly, all in order for the splits he'd require momentarily. "Place them. We begin momentarily."

"Oh, capital!" trilled the Muggle Prinny and slid into an empty seat, his growing bulk not nearly as well disguised by his waistcoat as he no doubt thought. Poor Prinny had been indulging his excesses in a royal manner. "Is it too late then, milord Malfoy? May I still horn in on the game?"

Draco inclined his sleek head, the excruciatingly high points of his collar disguising the marks that rotter Potter had left behind. He was the very image of smiling affability before the Muggle Regent.

"By all means, Your Majesty. Five Guineas to a Galleon is the current 'Change, yes? How many cheques do you require?"

"Oh, hallo there, Mr. Potter! Good evening!"

Prinny was distracted for a mere moment, exchanging pleasantries. When he turned back, his entourage had caught up with him and Wellington himself was seated at his left.

"Let's say a thousand, milord, shall we? No point in playing for kiddie's stakes, is there? And I do fancy a jab at those odd boney horses of yours. They do fly, I hear! Might as well run one at Haymarket this coming Sunday," he grinned genially. "Make up for my trouncing by that sly old Voldemort over yonder, eh?"

**Nineteen: Court Cards (in which all the required Toffs are gathered, as are several pertinent details)**

The magnificent ballroom of Malfoy House was alive with candlelight and magical sconces, and scented with exotic blooms. But no dancing went on and not a single gentleman present was expected to pencil his name on some blushing debutante's card. T'was an evening designed solely for the entertainment of the male half of the species, and as such, the ballroom was a small sea of green-clothed tables and coats from the best tailors.

A sumptuous cold collation was set out in the next room, and Malfoy had thrown open several additional rooms for gentleman in need of a rest from play. Men milled to and fro, chatting and laughing, and the sheer amount of potential gain on the hoof was staggering. Hatchard's and its Wizarding rival Flourish & Blott's had just delivered pallets of freshly printed decks that very morning and Wibble and the other elves had outshone themselves in their thorough preparations. Malfoy House sparkled. The owners of White's would've been sadly green with envy, had they thought of the loss incurred to their own proprietary tables.

The thought of White's elicited a fretful twist on the Viscount's lips. He'd spotted his and Potter's names in the Betting Book just at nuncheon, prominently displayed, and the running favourite was, of course, Plain Old Potter. The nature of the bet had been obscured by another gentleman's highly starched collar points at first, but the Viscount had assumed it was the outcome of a duel or some such the other Members were betting. He and Potter had challenged each other in plenty of those. It was only when he read the particulars he got the wind up: Potter was to kiss him, publically, and directly under the noses of the Patronesses of Almack's!

Draco had been coldly furious. Such an act was practically a declaration of intent to wed—and that would never happen! Since their public falling-out at Brighton, and Potter's tacit choice of an eventual marriage to the Weasley puss, he'd come to learn via his connections to the Bow Street Runners that Voldemort and his band of ruffians meant to take revenge upon the irksome Scarhead. Voldemort was a very downy fellow, as Crabbe said, and jockeying for power in both the Wizarding Ministry and the Muggle government. He long espoused the tenet of Grindlewald concerning the sanctity of Purebloods and the foul dishonor inherent of those noble Wizards who chose to follow the Athenian ideal and practice open homosexuality.

Voldemort's actions during the War—as leader of a small select coven of like-minded Wizards who served only as starting hares to bait Bonaparte's superior forces—had been vastly overshadowed by the heroic doings of the Red-and-Gold and the Slytherin Silvers at Waterloo, and word on the street was that he was incredibly jealous of Potter, the Iron Duke's bosom mate and Prinny's much-loved pet. He called his followers Death Eaters, and gathered any number of weaker Wizards to his side by dint of oily charisma and the sheer threat of his magical power, and by leading promises of a Utopian future in which only Wizards would control all the world's resources. A much nastier rumour was that Lord Voldemort sought power over his Majesty the Prince Regent as well, and would do whatever necessary to seize it. But first they'd preyed upon the Earl, Malfoy's Papa, for daring to finally turn his coat and choose sides. The Malfoy's had been key to the War efforts, with their ties to France, and between the Viscount's skill with hexes and the Earl's skill with words, Bonaparte had been besieged from within and without.

Voldemort, who'd been under the impression he held the Malfoys firmly in his pocket, had been thoroughly disabused of that notion. The Earl—no longer of use to Voldemort—had been soundly ruined, had fled posthaste to Calais, and his heir and lady wife left to their own devices. The Viscount, at last choosing his first loyalty over any ephemeral pleasures, had not made up with that git Potter, nor would he. Not before the eyes of Society, at least. What they got up on the side was another matter.

It galled him cruelly to take second fiddle to that ginger-haired minx. She did not love Potter as he did; wouldn't die for him as he would; wouldn't open her thighs as he had, willingly, almost from the day they'd first wanked off together by the shores of Hogwart's lake. In truth, he'd been woefully besotted ever since their first meeting. But Potter—Plain Old orphaned piteous Potter—seemed to crave more the comforting sprawl of a huge and extensive family than he required the showy charms of an acknowledged fair-haired boy of the Ton on his arm, and had disdained Draco's offer of a hasty Bonding at Gretna.

They'd separated, ostensibly at daggers drawn, and the Viscount had not seen hide nor hair of Potter 'till the commencement of the Season. Then, when it came, Potter had sauntered into Malfoy's study in his same old careless manner, two weeks late, had offered no apology, had made no excuses, and had proceeded to snog Draco to utter incoherency without so much as a polite 'By your leave, sir?' He'd been bent over his own Hepplewhite settee in a matter of twenty minutes and hadn't said a word to the contrary.

Hadn't allowed so much as a peep to escape his well-bred lips concerning the actions of the Weasley wench since, either, despite Zabini's encroachments on her virtue. It would not serve Potter's best interests to kick up a dust, and Potter was Draco's first priority.

T'was shaping up to be a highly profitable evening, Malfoy concluded, surveying with satisfaction the numerous small games in progress with his trusty seconds as substitute Banquers. Already his substantial stake (funded primarily as the result of an anxious Owl to his mother) had been quadrupled, and he anticipated more of the same. The rustics—with the notable exception of Potter and his lot of straggling gingers—the younger sons, and the poorly equipped lesser gamesters had been weeded out over the earlier hours of play. Servants circulated with trays of champagne and Firewhisky, keeping the proceedings well oiled, and an air of camaraderie balanced atop the underlying lying passion for winning all punters showed when confronted by the baize.

Draco was superbly outfitted in his latest creation from Bagshotte, who rivaled the great Weston himself for a nicely seamed shoulder and taut, nipped-in silhouette. His coats were sought after and horribly costly. But it was a charcoal wool so dark as to be nearly black and did wonders for his Pureblood complexion and elevated cheekbones and the Viscount had been unable to resist its purchase. His breeches were of olive green, and the embroidery on his waistcoat was of dull gold thread, though the buttons themselves were of purest silver. His cravat was his favored Waterfall, artfully pinned with a single intricately faceted emerald, and the hereditary ring of the Malfoy heirs flashed proudly on his pinkie finger, tiny serpents hissing and twisting with excitement at the crowded quarters. His wand was tucked up his lacy cuffs, easily at hand but no threat to the Muggles. His scent was from Floris, crafted solely for him, and a hundred Galleons an ounce. But Draco was particularly pleased with his boots, newly delivered from Hoby and of the very highest degree of champagne-and-blacking polish. One could see one's reflection in them, and he'd seen a very handsome young Wizard earlier as he made ready: narrow-faced but with a generous lower lip, scarlet as any bit 'o muslin's, and piercing grey eyes, pale arched brows and an ever paler coif, arranged a la Brutus, and brought to a shimmer with pomade imported from the Orient.

Milord Snape had quietly slipped into a spindly chair to the Viscount's right moments previous, taking up the role of casekeeper, the Muggle abacus-like device in hand. To Malfoy's left sat Plain Old Potter, then the Hon. Ronald, followed by the Viscount's mates the Lords Nott and Zabini. Another Weasley was present, as well, and then the remainder was comprised of his Muggle Majesty, the Iron Duke (with whom Malfoy shared a warm smile), Cupid and the Lords Sefton and Cowper.

"Ten, and Nine, as well," Potter bet, and showed his mettle, matching up to Prinny's cheque with nary a flinch.

"Three and stay," the Hon. Ron glared at Draco, and then transferred his fulmination to his closest mate, and the Viscount spared a thought to wondering if they'd fallen out. Or perhaps one of the ladies had taken faint at Vauxhall and Weasley had been denied keeping company with La Granger? Or perhaps the staider Hon. Ronald merely disapproved of his friend's proclivity towards high-stakes gambling? It was mystery, but of no real import. The Hon. Ronald was a good enough fellow and handy with his fives, and Draco couldn't fault his legendary loyalty to Scarhead.

"Four and Nine," Cupid set down cheques amounting to a hundred on each spade, and the motions of betting continued 'round the table.

Draco shuffled, to his satisfaction, and noted no sanding of the cards from Hatchard's or the box he'd procured on Pall Mall as a curiority.

"Split, gentlemen," the Viscount announced quietly a moment later his pleasure over the 'lucky' pair of Nines entirely disguised. With a few intakes of breath and a burst of chatter, his winnings were pushed forward. A thousand from Prinny, a matching thousand from Potter, whose cheques had ranged all over the suite of spades, smaller sums each from Cupid and the older of the Weasley Wizards. The Duke chose to stay his cheques and the rest scrambled to place more as Draco laid a long-fingered hand on the card keep, waiting. To his credit, the ornately inlaid box was not rigged. The Viscount abhorred such foul means of cheating—the bulwark of such plebes as 'Silver Hand Pettigrew' and the like—and preferred to trust his luck to the all-important shuffle. He was a talented shuffler and could place splits at will and splits were the meat-and-drink of the Pharo-Banque. For every split, he took half of the staked cheques and over time, it amounted. When the stakes were verging on the astronomical, as they were in the rarified company of Muggle royalty and Potter (heir to two known fortunes, and a bloody Nabob, fumed Viscount Malfoy), the steady production of splits was crucial.

"Better luck next time, gentleman," Malfoy smiled sweetly and drew the next pair, propping his noble head carelessly upon a fist and avoiding Potter's intense stare. This time he lost, but he expected it. A few more hands and he'd recoup that and more.

Potter's luck was off—either that, or something was fishy in the state of Denmark. Nearly every cheque was to the Banque's benefit, and Draco watched with growing horror as his sometime lover forked over close to ten thousand Galleons.

"Oh, I say! Bad show on my part!" Malfoy heard the clarion voice of Percy Weasley from clear across the room. He was at Voldemort's Banque and appeared to have been stripped of his quarterly allowance. "Now I shall have to avoid the pater like anything." He sounded odd, Weasley did. As if he'd been carefully rehearsed. "What a demned shame, that."

"Rotten luck, old chap," the Lord Sefton clapped Weasley on the shoulder. "But rejoice that you're still single. M'lady wife spends our guineas like water, and I'm always turning away the tradesmen."

"Oh, may I see that?" Weasley hadn't drifted yet from where Voldemort held court. He laid eager hands on the Lord's card box. "How unusual! What detail in these mother-of-pearl inlays, milord. Wherever did you get it?"

"An heirloom," Voldemort returned tightly, and turned away, whispering in Pettigrew's ear and sending him scuttling off after champagne. He rose, and McNair and another gentleman fell into ranks behind him. "I'm off for bite, Weasley. Do give my fondest regards to your father."

"Oh! Oh! Thank you, milord!" burbled Weasley, and Draco flared his nostrils, scenting something definitely amiss. "I'll be sure to pass it on!"

He trundled off, murmuring about 'Imagine that!' and 'What kindness!' and the Viscount let it go, for if that particular Weasley chose to clutch at Lord Voldemort's leading strings, it was no skin off his nose. There were other, slightly more worthwhile Weasleys, and entirely too many of them altogether in the first place.

Malfoy turned his attention to toting up his winnings. They were considerable and he spared a glare at Potter's spine, bent over to give an ear to a shortish, younger chap several feet away. Potter, the scoundrel, had engineered his losses somehow, and the Viscount was incensed. This was not the way he wished the evening to go. The Banque should be ready pickings; that was the ticket, to ensure that Lord Voldemort scented the kill, but not overly flush. That would lure even the slyly knowing Voldemort into a false sense of security, that satisfactory notion of administering the final death blow to the family Malfoy, and then Draco would have him. Lock, stock and barrel and dead to rights.

Before Prinny and Snape and yes, even Potter. Before credible witnesses, the most noble in either the Wizarding world or the Muggle. For Voldemort was going down.


	6. Chapter Twenty to TwentyOne

**HD 'Pharo' Parts Twenty to Twenty-One**

**Twenty: Queens Rule (in which the Countess smiles and nods)**

Araminta Bellows-Barton's ball was a success, much to the delight of her ape-leading aunt, Lady Thistlethwaite-Smythe.

A positive horde of dowagers and _grande dames_ said so, and they would know. There were well-heeled, titled, _single_ gentlemen aplenty and the rooms were so crowded and thronged with elite it was considered quite the crush.

The Countess Malfoy said so, and her coterie of ladies and Witches nodded smugly. The Countess then tittered slyly and blessed Salazar that she hadn't a daughter to launch and those who hadn't were instantly struck by the good sense of that. Teenaged females were so contrary, it was agreed, and prone to faints, fits, and mopes. Better indeed to have sons.

The Countess then related her son's—the Viscount Malfoy's, that is—latest fancy: a Pharo-Banque.

"Quite a bumblebroth," she remarked, flirting her fan desultorily. "I quite thought he'd come amiss, but then that young man—oh, I'm sure you know of him, even you, Maria. Potter—Harry Potter. He's quite taken with my son, it seems. Has rather stepped up to support him in this."

"Oh, really?" Lady Parkinson raised a dark brow. "I'd heard they'd a falling-out, Narcissa. In Brighton, this last Small Season, wasn't it?"

"Nothing but unfounded rumours," the Countess replied coolly. "They are the very best of…friends, Mr. Potter and my son. In the War together, of course."

"Decorated, weren't they, milady?" asked a Muggle, a Miss Ponsonby, who was relegated to dowager stature by way of being ancient, deaf and staunchly single. "It's Major Potter, is it not? At Waterloo it happened. My nephew's a Guard, y'see. Knows about such things."

"Oh, indeed," the Countess nodded, raising her voice, just so Miss Ponsonby would lower hers to a level more genteel. These ear trumpets the elder Muggles employed were not at all ideal. She cast a discreet spell to enhance Miss Ponsonby's audial range, under guise of folding her ever-present fan. "Conferred by the Iron Duke, no less. Such a handsome man, is he not?"

"Your son is no less handsome, my dearest," cooed Lady Goyle. She and Narcissa Black had attended quite a number of years of school in each other's company and Lord Goyle, before his unfortunate death at the teeth of an unknown assailant, had been close acquaintances with the Earl. "My Gregory has always said so. A real Bond Street Beau, the Viscount."

"You do it up much too brown, darling," the Countess protested, laughing lightly. "Though, mind you, I do believe young Mr. Potter shares your son's opinion. There's not a day passes that he's not calling upon dear Draco. Fixing his interest, naturally."

"Indeed!" barked the Lady Parkinson. "That's not at all what I've heard, Narcissa! Potter is to wed the Weasley chit, is he not?"

"No, indeed, my love," purred the Countess, "he is not. Hardly the thing, as he's called upon the Earl to discuss portions. I believe the contract is in process of being drawn up by our mutual agents."

Lady Parkinson's florid cheeks darkened, her wattle wibbled and she snorted, loudly. The other ladies drew back slightly, for such visible choler was quite unseemly.

"I beg to differ, Narcissa! Your son had paid court to my Pansy for months now—nay, years! It had always been my dearest wish to unite our families-!"

"Has it, milady?" the Countess asked curiously, her tone most airy and uninterested. "Shame, then. Wishes so often are nothing more than childish fancies. One sees the truth as one ages. Young Master Potter has always trailed after my Draco, since their schooldays. So romantical!"

"But-but, I quite thought the family was against it, Lady Malfoy?" Emily Cowper had no trouble at all speaking up and being heard, Muggle or no. "A little bird told me the Earl had forbade it, months ago. Matters have changed, then?"

The Countess laughed, a trill of light notes that floated merrily amongst the gaily dressed ladies, the debutantes all in white and the eligible gentlemen, engaged in a minuet only a few steps distant. She sipped her orgeat, and smiled.

"Come now, Emily," she chuckled, and her smile was infectious, "do you honestly believe the Earl would ever deny the family access to three fortunes?"

"_**Three**_!" screeched Lady Parkinson, half-rising from her groaning chair. It was delicate, in the Oriental design, and not at all up to supporting her bulk. "No! I knew of two, certainly but _three_?"

"Three," pronounced Narcissa, smugly. "Potter, Black and Lupin. Godfathers, of course. Such a pity they've passed on beyond this mortal coil." She dabbed her eyes with the lacy kerchief she'd conjured and then tucked it back up her sleeve with a flourish. "No, no. Mr. Potter, despite being 'Plain', as my mischievous son does insist on labeling him, is a Nabob of the highest order. It shall be a splendid match for Draco, dear ones. And, naturally, Mr. Potter. Do congratulate me."

The ladies twittered with excitement—all except Lady Parkinson, who tromped away, glowering—and Araminta's dance card was full to overflowing. Quite a successful evening, actually.

**Twenty One: Jacks Abound (in which Major assesses his forces once more)**

"_Hsst_! Hermione!" Mr. Potter bent his head, for though he was not tall, he still of greater stature than Miss Granger. She made for a very stubby young sprig of the Ton. "Who're you supposed to be, exactly, if I may inquire?"

"Ho!" the Hon. Ron exclaimed, sotto voce, "Harry! Don't be addressing my fiancé by her first name! T'is not seemly!"

"Gudgeon!" Miss Granger exclaimed in turn and glared at her ginger-maned beau. "Be off with you, Ronald! You hardly know Bartholomew Harsquack and wouldn't be seen speaking with him! Now, do go circulate!"

"Is that whom you're Polyjuiced as, Hermione?" Mr. Potter asked curiously. "Where is he, by the by? Not present, I hope?"

"Hardly," Miss Granger sneered. "As if I'd make that mistake! No, he's safely at the Thisthlethwaite-Smythe's," Miss Granger replied smartly, and Mr. Potter marvelled silently that someone could actually manage that moniker without lisping. "Dancing attendance on heiresses, I'd imagine. Believe me, I made sure of his plans before I swiped the hair." She cocked her head at her companion, inquiringly, and patted down the slightly robust figure of young Mr. Harsquack with a casual hand. "Do you approve then, Harry?'

"It's brilliant, Hermione," Mr. Potter replied, smiling. "An inspired choice, indeed."

"Hah! Hermione!" The Hon. Ron was quite red in the face and puffing. He whispered fiercely, "Don't you be addressing him as 'Harry', neither! He's not your kin, y'know! Can't be doing that—not till you're wed. This is really not acceptable, none of it—"

"Oh, do shut your gob, Ronald," Harry Potter smiled equably. "She's practically my sister-in-law, aren't you, Hermione?" he added, meaningfully.

"Indeed," agreed Miss Granger, inclining her head. "And Ronald, we're engaged to be wed, which is practically as good as. You're far too high in the instep for a Weasley. Now, to business. Are we all in proper places?"

"Milord Snape's agreed to be case keeper for the final Banque, and there's loyal Slytherins everywhere you spy," Harry reported, glancing about at various other players. "Perce has just played his part and most publically lost his quarterly—"

"Silly toad eater—er, sorry, Hermione!" interjected a sullen Hon. Ron. "One would think he still had a fondness for all Pureblood gabble of Voldemort's! Too, he's always been an absolute slowtop at putting on a show. You wouldn't know, Miss Granger, but our Percy's not a Siddons, not at all!"

"But Voldemort was convinced, or seemed so, so he's definitely off his guard," Miss Granger returned to the point, "and Miss Parkinson's taken charge of the resident elves, the refreshments and the Muggle servants, so we've all the exits covered. Malfoy House is secure."

"Where's my other brothers, the scoundrels?" the Hon. Ron demanded.

"The Twins are due any moment with that unfortunate young man, Binkle, Ronald," Mr. Potter replied calmly, "and—"

"Milord Snape's chatting up Voldemort now, and, finally—" Miss Granger put in.

"The Earl's in Draco's library, consuming port and well out of the way for the moment," Harry concluded, nodding. "I think we're set, then. Time for the next act."

Mr. Potter nodded casually, and stepped back, preparatory to seeking some refreshment himself before play resumed. The Hon. Ron offered him a casual salute, reminiscent of their old days and stations, as Major and First Lieutenant.

"Harry!" hissed Miss Granger, turning back at the last moment. She raised her borrowed brows and darted a glance sideways, subtly indicating the Viscount Malfoy. "Does _he_ suspect, d'you think? The Viscount?"

"'Course he does—he's both a Slytherin and a Malfoy, not to mention old Snape's godson," Harry chuckled. "If he didn't, I'd seriously feel great concern for his health. But he won't confront me over it, even so."

"You're certain?"

"Absolutely. He's his own Grand Scheme of ruination, which he believes to be a secret. Plans to act the martyr, somehow, and sacrifice what's left of his fortune too. He's vain enough to think he's fooled me."

"More hair than wit! Truly, I've absolutely no clue why you remain acquaintances with that fribble, Harry, much less—" the Hon. Ronald spoke up again, grumbling, and was instantly hushed by his fiancé.

"_Ronald_! Alright, Harry, we'll trust in your instincts."

"Not failed me yet, Hermione," Mr. Potter nodded agreeably. "Now…I do believe I've lingered long enough?"

"Oh, yes! To work, gentlemen," Miss Granger agreed, and bustled off, followed at a distance by her gangly betrothed.

Mr. Potter had barely made any progress towards the smaller room in which a veritable feast was spread when he accosted yet again.

"Potter!" the Viscount bit out, appearing before him much like an avenging angel. Indeed, he was angelic, what with his fair colouring and remarkable good looks. Had he been a woman, he'd have been instantly toasted as diamond of the first water. As it was, the Muggle ladies and Pureblood Witches swooned in his path nonetheless, for Malfoys were more than eligible _parti_, despite the current Viscount's distinct taint of rakehell.

"Malfoy, a pleasure, as always," Mr. Potter nodded and smiled, and made as if to pass on.

"Not so fast, Potter. I require a moment—in private!" the Viscount hissed. He laid a pale hand on Mr. Potter's sleeve, drawing him after. Mr. Potter followed somewhat unwillingly, casting glances behind him to ensure no one noted either the Viscount's high state of dudgeon or his own disappearance.

A moment later, the Viscount had ushered Mr. Potter into one the numerous smaller rooms off the main ballroom entry. He stepped back, releasing his grip, and surveyed Mr. Potter's Corinthian elegance.

"You've cleaned up nicely, Plain Old Potter," he remarked, and only one who knew him well would be aware that his temper had not receded in the slightest. Far from it: a pleasantly smiling Malfoy was the most dangerous kind.

"D'you really think so?" Harry, affecting a somewhat false modesty, glanced down his front, admiring the close-fitting small-clothes from Weston and his newest pair of Hessian boots—deepest black, with leather tassels. "I do try, upon occasion. Besides, I rather thought you'd toss me out on the street if I turned up here not bang up to the nines, Malfoy. You are ever concerned with the latest mode."

"Cut the gammon, Potter," Malfoy glared. "Why are you even here? You're scheduled to be at Vauxhall, with your pathetically ginger fiancé!"

"Not my fiancé, Malfoy," Mr. Potter raised a saturnine brow. "You shouldn't assume, old chap. Assuming, as you may recall, makes an arse of both you and—"

"Shut it, Potter!" the Viscount snorted. "As if I care whom your eventual Parson's mousetrap will be! Point is, you're not welcome here! Not tonight, at least, so take yourself off!"

"Point is," Mr. Potter drawled, "I belong at your side, Malfoy, and that would be logically preclude my being elsewhere."

"You do not!" The Viscount was furious. "You cast me away, Harry, most publicly, and by your own free will! You've no right to stick your nose in my business! No cause in the eyes of Society, at least!"

Mr. Potter leant his broad shoulders back against the convenient doorframe. They'd not budged an inch from the arched and moulded entryway, though each had discreetly sent a variety of locking and silencing spells toward it. He tapped the manicured fingers of one tanned hand across his folded arms and assumed an air of great patience.

"I've every right, Malfoy," he stated. "I've applied for your hand and been accepted by the Earl. You're nearly a Potter, now. Have your parents not informed you?"

"What! What-what-_what_? _**P-Potter**_!" spluttered the Viscount, staggering back, so that Mr. Potter stuck out a steadying hand. "What _is_ this Banbury Tale you spout? My parents don't approve of the connection, Potter! Never have, not since the get-go! You lie!"

"I beg to differ, Draco," Potter purred. "True enough, both the Earl and your lady mother took steps to warn me off last summer, but that was solely out of concern for your safety and a temporary measure only. Miss Weasley agreed to provide, er, a 'cover', as it were, for verisimilitude. But nothing has substantially changed, Draco. I still lo—"

"I repeat, you lie, Potter!" the irate Viscount snapped. "Bare-faced Banbury tales, at that, claiming this was all simply a ploy to protect my person! Bah! I'm not such a ninny-l! I'm more than capable, Potter, and a _man_—I've no need for a protector as these silly Muggle Ton ladies do, and that simply doesn't fly! Pull t'other, damn you!—!"

"But, Draco," Potter said, stepping carefully forward as if to follow, a tentative hand outstretched. "It's true. Snape and the Earl both came to me, with information. Voldemort was—"

"Shut up! What do you know about it, Potter? I've had my ear to the ground as well, and the only news I've gotten all concerns you, Golden Boy!"

"Malfoy!"

"Stopper it, Potter! Just—just for a moment, Potter, let me speak, will you?"

"I—alright, Draco," Mr. Potter replied softly, and let his restraining hand fall away.

The Viscount ripped his person away from Plain Old Potter's touch and stalked off across the room, deftly avoiding the many console tables and Queen Anne chairs that impeded his progress. He fetched up before the Floo and stared into the green flames, brooding.

"You broke my heart, you know," he remarked casually, after a tense little silence had elapsed. "All matters of Voldemort's scheming aside, that remains true. I wished to wed you, honestly. It was all aboveboard, every word."

"Draco, I'm sorry, but there was no other choice—I couldn't!"

"Be quiet!" the Viscount snapped, and raised a hand to his forehead. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and closed his eyes. "Every word you speak, Harry, is nothing more than another lie, in the end. You'll not have me—you've flat out stated it, sober as a judge—and whether Voldemort rises or falls is immaterial! You want—you want something I am not, nor could ever be. Did you think I wasn't listening to every word when you so brutally gave me my _congè_, Harry? Blooded heirs for Potter, to make for the lack of title? The 'old-fashioned methods'? 'No scandals'—'a quiet life'?"

"Draco," Harry made his careful way through the maze of furniture. He stood at Malfoy's back, so close his warmth travelled the inch or so between them. "Draco, listen to me, please. I didn't intend to hurt your feelings, but it was absolutely necessary to put a safe distance between us. For your well-being. For your very _life_, Draco!"

"I cannot, Potter," the Viscount replied, and it was only the tiniest crack in his refined tones which gave his inner turmoil away. "I cannot afford to believe you—not now. You may have me whenever you care to, however you wish—you know that—but I cannot allow you free rein of my heart. Not again, Harry. Never again."

"Draco…"

Mr. Potter slipped his arms around the Viscount's waist and gently drew him back, so that his long spine was flush with the ornate buttons down the front of Mr. Potter's sartorial finery. The Viscount made no protest nor struggled in the slightest; merely sighed and slumped as Mr. Potter rested his chin on the Viscount's collarbone.

"I had rather hoped," Mr. Potter remarked softly, "that you would trust me, Draco."

"I have never ceased trusting you, Harry!" The Viscount, incensed, made to spin in Mr. Potter's arms and Mr. Potter caught the flash of temper in those grey eyes, overlaying the resignation that lingered beneath. He swallowed, and closed his own, in pain. "Never! You insult me!"

"Whoa! Calm down, love—calm down, do." Mr. Potter soothed, wincing. How he regretted this—this playacting, but Voldemort was insidious, and he'd overheard Fenrir Greyback make wild, horrible threats against Malfoy when he was in his cups. The Death Eaters were gaining momentum. It wouldn't do—it would never do to lose this beautiful man to such an inhuman monster.

"Please, love?"

Mr. Potter huffed hopefully and buried his nose deeper into Malfoy's throat. So much collateral damage done, and all for the sake of accumulating power and influence where none should be given in excess. Bonaparte had not paid heed to that till Waterloo. Without doubt, Voldemort and his elusive adherents, too, had much to pay for, not the least the deliberate destruction of Harry's happiness.

"Potter, do cease petting me," the Viscount replied fretfully, but he didn't take himself out of Potter's embrace. "It's not necessary; I'm not budging a step, am I?"

"Then," Mr. Potter sighed, and turned his jaw so that he could bury it in Malfoy's hair, "then, if you _do_. trust me, d'you think you might manage it for just a little while longer?"

"How long, Potter?" whispered the Viscount. He shifted, though, perhaps unconsciously, to allow Potter free access to his neck, his shirt points wilting under steamy breath. "How long this time?"

He spun on a heel and this time Mr. Potter didn't stop him, only just keeping his encircling arms in place. The Viscount tilted his aristocratic head down, making up for the scant few inches between them, bringing grey eyes level with startling green. It had been Harry's gaze that had first ensnared the Viscount, at a very young age. He'd not managed a step away from that hopeless ensorcellment since.

Malfoy sighed in turn, bent his head a scant inch or so and returned Potter's steely grip, so that they stood nearly nose to nose, foreheads touching.

"Listen," he said softly. "To me, just this once, Plain Old Potter. It's not of importance at this point; how long, or whether you acknowledge me or cut me dead in the street—doesn't matter a whit, Harry. Not to me. I'll still be yours; I'll be yours till the day I expire, and nothing—not a bloody thing—will alter that, no matter whether I wish it or no. You may legshackle your lot to your ginger chit; you may sire a round dozen miniature Plain Potters, and I will still be here for you, regardless."

"Draco," breathed Potter, eyes at half-mast with pleasure. Their lips brushed, lightly, as though to define what lips were really for: a means of communication that didn't require all these unnecessary words. "Draco, I love you so—"

"Shhh, Potter," the Viscount murmured. He struck a hand through Potter's crop of curly locks, and marvelled at the black silk poking up between his knuckles. Lovely—just lovely. Like no other. "Shut it. You don't have to—it doesn't matter. It's enough—_this_. is enough, understand? This is…everything. Just, um, promise me this one small favour, if you would?"

"Hmmm?" Mr. Potter hummed, occupied with nibbling his slow way across the chiseled planes of the Viscount's handsome features. "What's that, love? Anything, you know that. Anything, for you."

"Promise me you'll be safe, Potter. That you'll stay well away from Voldemort. He is a very dangerous Wizard, Harry, and I fear for you."

"Draco, shush, now. Hmmm?" Potter muttered, and captured the Viscount's mouth with a wet slurp. Moments passed in slow motion, and the Viscount's senses responded to sweet torment. Doggedly, he blinked and hauled his mouth away from Potter's devouring lips, breaking suction. His words were a bit choppy coming, and he'd his eager groin grinding against Potter's in a slow, seductive roll all the while, apparently helpless to stay it.

"Promise me, above all, that you'll be safe. Voldemort is a loose cannon, Harry—you must be careful!"

"Hmmm…love you, Draco," Potter muttered, and handily ignored the Viscount's requirement for his safety altogether. "How much time d'you think before…?"

"Ugh!" the Viscount gasped, his throat bared to Mr. Potter's remarkably clever mouth, He tipped his blond head back and allowed Mr. Potter to run a slow hand down the front of him, disengaging buttons and fasteners left and right. "Salazar! Ten—no, twenty minutes, Potter! What—what on earth are you doing to me? I need—I must! You've not said you promise, you great gudgeon!"

"Umm," Mr. Potter sighed his satisfaction over all these revelations—and Malfoy's almost palpable concern for him. "Yes, you must—and trust me, you _will_. More than enough time, love, to convince you as to my vastly honourable intentions as to that arse of yours. Come closer, will you? And you won't be needing those," he added in a drawl, indicating the Viscount's satin breeches.

"Harry! Oh—bloody Merlin, Harry!" For being the taller, the Viscount was surprisingly limber. He bent knees and elbows as they fell over the back of the convenient sopha. Potter had a bolster stuffed under his twitching hips before he could say 'Snap!'

"Harry, Harry, Harry! Don't stop, Harry—don't stop!"

"Right _there_!" Potter growled, putting a few dexterous fingers into place, and the Viscount yielded up any last momentary concerns over matters of time, along with his inhibitions—those few that remained.

"Annngh! Oooooh!"

"Mine, Draco. All!" Potter swallowed hard, his eyes clenched tight shut, and made ready, slicking them both. "Mine!"

Malfoy subsided into happy whimpers beneath him, allowing his arse to be levered higher and bared wide. Potter was, after all, a bloody Nonesuch, the dastard. And he was a damned fine whipster, too. Knew how to use his wrists to advantage.


	7. Chapter TwentyTwo

**Twenty-Two: Needles & Sand & Imperios (or..Goes Without Saying)**

"Ready, Milord Malfoy?" Lord Snape's liquid chocolate voice enquired.

"But of course, sir," the Viscount, spiffed up and looking not at all as if he'd just allowed Potter his way not but ten minutes previous, shuffled the fresh deck of cards with aplomb. "Bets, milords? Place them, do."

"If I may join you?"

Lord Voldemort slithered into a chair at Snape's other hand, smiling condescendingly. He'd done quite exceedingly well this evening with his own Banque, and he blessed his good fortune the Viscount was known more as a rakehell and profligate than as a deep thinker. No—the Malfoy pup was no threat. More to the point to avoid the likes of that blasted Nott—a known intellectual, that one; compleat Socrates, really—and that foreign lizard Zabini, who boasted a prosperously abundant yearly income. Not the young cub Malfoy, who was no better than he should be.

Buggery!

Voldemort sneered derisively. It had been bruited about recently that the Viscount had been Major Potter's plaything—until bad blood arose between them, last Little Season. Potter, fortunately or unfortunately—Milord Voldemort had not quite decided—was present in person this evening, drifting about and playing light, as was his wont.

Thus were presented several very positive possible outcomes to my Lord Voldemort's scheming devizes, not the least of which was young Malfoy's distinct air of ruffled distraction. With his eyes glued to Potter in that so-uncomely way , he'd not notice a thing amiss at his baize till it was far too late to recoup, Voldemort decided. The Malfoy fortunes would be then all his for the plucking, in their entirety.

Milord Voldemort smiled; a grimace, more like, but he _was_ pleased.

Meanwhile that scurrilous thug Fenrir, hastily summoned from his perpetual indulgences in the alleys down near Newgate, would arrive momentarily and wait outside the walls of Malfoy House, as per plan. Potter would then be set to be trailed after his departure from the Malfoy manse and—being soused, likely, or at least off his guard—be ripe for attack at the point of Apparation. He'd not survive _that_, not if it was Fenrir and a good company of his acolytes who beset him, Lord Voldemort concluded, his satisfaction with his _ad hoc_ plan growing in leaps and bounds as he mused.

It was…satisfactory. In fact, t'was all in hand, his triumph over these shirtlifters, these Muggle-lovers, these scum who plagued Purebreds as gadflies did a Thoroughbred!

T'was seldom such brilliant coincidences occurred—and egads, he'd be a sodding Bedlamite _not_ to take full advantage. He'd long been jockeying for a position in Prinny's staff, poised to pounce, as it were, as a final step towards fully subjugating the inbred, ill-bred Muggle monarchy. Lay his hands upong their bounteous coffers; steer their precarious ship of state to his own harbours.

Too, the Wizarding Minister, that weak-chinned brown-noser Fudge, was neatly tucked in Voldemort's pocket. He'd the politicos, then, or at least the Majority. And he'd the clout, finally, having accumulated sufficient wealth through his machinations to bankroll a rather substantial following of mercenaries and delusional Pureblood ninnies. The Malfoy holdings would be a final feather in Milord's cap, a triumph on all fronts, and the deciding step towards cementing his still secretive ties to the powerful Muggle Bonaparte, presently awaiting events at Elba.

Lord Voldemort only barely stifled a cackle as he glanced about him. The domination of all Europe was but a breath away and just a few cards would start the juggernaught rolling.

Pettigrew, as per cue, arrived hastily—out of breath and juggling a plate of fancies and a mug of draught—

and wormed his way 'round the crowded table, taking up his customary place at Voldemort's elbow. As that Lord expected, the Prince Regent also creaked across the room, his barely stay'd girth parting a regal swathe through the chattering, well-dressed masses. The lesser lights of his retinue followed in his wake, including, Voldemort noted, both that tiresome Wellington _and_ Potter.

Potter—already upon him, as it were. How…delightful.

Well, now, Milord thought. Here we will thus ensnare in one net not only that enamoured fool of a lovelorn Malfoy, but also the infinitely troublesome Jack. 

T'would be victory…sweet, sweet Victory. Hail, Brittania!

For his part, Milord Malfoy the younger allowed a few more moments to tick by, marking time whilst the flurry of cheques were laid. He was visibly impatient and allowed it to be so, for he was wracked with nerves within and _someone_ should suffer.

_Someone_…should be Potter, properly, for leaving him half-daft and wrung out on this night 'o nights. But—contrarily—_not_ Potter (dear plain old Potter!), for allowing harm to befall that dear, dear old git would wound the Viscount's heart irreparably.

Let it be these bounders, then. They all deserved it—oh, excepting his mates and Potter, of course—for being such ruddy fools at the gaming tables. As Father oft said, 'if duffers, will drown; if not, shan't.'

"Have you finished?" The Viscount stared round the baize, the crisp deck still shuffling softly between his practiced fingers. "Are you at last ready, good sirs?" Heads poring over the baize popped up one by one, cheeks reddening. For as the evening wended on and wine flowed freely, so did sharp wit fly. "Gentlemen, we may commence at last? The cards grow cold, I fear, should we linger longer. Let's be at it."

A general murmur of hasty agreement went up, as gentlemen caught up their tally cards to examine and Snape meditatively fingered his obolus, the counter used to track the cards revealed in play.

_"Bon chance_, then," the Viscount smiled. "Coup. A Five it is for all you punters."

"Awww," murmured a few, whilst others smiled. "Oooh." There was some nodding and one faint disheartened "Damme!"

Likely Weasley, that. The impecunious chap played both small and seldom. And he'd the very worst of luck. 'Course, the git _was_ lucky in love, sod him, what with that bluestocking chit he'd lighted on to marry, so…still.

T'was no place for the likes of Weasley, Honourable Ronald; the Viscount's baize table. Not a'tall.

Malfoy sneered in his general direction, but refrained from comment for his lover's sake.

"And the Queen of Hearts, for the Banque." His tone was nothing if not bland. Father had taught him well the many shifting masques of the banquer.

"Noted," murmured Master Snape, all the wile surreptitiously shooting a meaningful glance towards the Lord Voldemort,_ his_ supposed Master. Milord V bared his teeth briefly in what passed for a pleased smile; Milord Malfoy maintained his regal air of decided disinterest; Plain Old Potter chitchatted with the Muggle Regent and, all 'round the table, additional gentlemen drifted closer, drawn by the swirling rumours of high stakes and deep play.

Some of those 'gentlemen' were not necessarily gentlemen, but—such subterfuge remained unsuspected.

"A thousand Guineas, Malfoy, if you please, in your counters," the Regent requested politely and Draco took his Majesty's vowels with a pretty white-toothed smile. "Petty change, I fear," the regent chortled wheezily, "but we must begin somewhere, yes?"

"Oh, yes. At your service, your Majesty." Malfoy only placidly pushed over the requested counters, nodding respectfully to the Muggle heir apparent. "My pleasure. Always, sir."

"Hear, hear!" Apollo raise his glass cheerily.

"Such a good fellow, that one," Poodle remarked to no one in particular, "and marked fine in a ring, don'tcha know? Got some science, that lad. _Science_!"

The next turn but one was a split, as Draco Malfoy—raised by the baize from a mere babe—had both designed and fully expected. He carefully observed Lord Voldemort's involuntary twitch of ire. The Lord Voldemort was not known to be a good loser and Draco had stacked his deck so that splits would be well and far between, enough to continue to keep the Banque afloat but not sufficient to rouse the slightest suspicion.

All was, so far, swimming. Not an eyebrow twitched nor a hovering henchmen muttered.

Play continued, with a vastly cheerful Prinny losing at his usual rate and various others collecting and paying out in minor dribbles and drabs. There were no major upsets and no one retired from the green with wan faces and pockets to let—not as of yet, at least.

Major Potter held rock steady, betting minimal cheques whenever possible, and beside him the Hon. Ron only observed, his flaming red brows rising ever higher with every 'Paroli!' and 'Paroli-Doublet'.

"Sept a le va," Voldemort murmured, when it was down to six cards remaining. "I see it."

"Of course, milord," the Viscount smiled, and watched with great equanimity as his Banque dwindled. "That is so. Such is the will of Fata Morgana, yes?"

"Coppering the Jack, please," Potter leant abruptly forward, and a pile of ivory cheques appeared there, piled upon the Jack's venerable spot on the baize table.

"And I!" Prinny jumped in merrily and laid his own counters besides Potter's. "Trusting to that marvelous luck of yours, Potter!" he added, with great good cheer. "Don't desert me, I beg."

"Indeed, Your Majesty. I hope not to disappoint you." Potter flushed, faintly, and ducked his chin. "And never shall I, believe me," he added, most earnestly.

Prinny was wreathed in happy smiles; the remainder of the table murmured accolades to that young Potter: 'War hero, you know?', 'Heard all about him at Talavera', and so forth and so on.

Milord Voldemort ground his teeth, but only behind carefully smiling lips. The time was not just yet, but it was coming—he could smell it, practically, rising foul on the smoky, whisky-edged air.

"A Jack," Viscount Malfoy staidly drew the next with nary a pause, laying down the carte Anglais. "Of Hearts, I see. Ah, and another! Split, gentleman. What amazing good fortune this night brings—for some amongst us. Do you not agree?"

There was a muffled dark murmur—a sudden swell as the wind changed—and various gentlemen present raised eyebrows and exchanged glances.

"Indeed!" puffed Pettigrew. "Mighty fishy, methinks!" He swore further, crying 'Foul!" but under his breath. Few heeded him.

"Quite so," muttered the Baron Yaxley, another of Milord Voldemort's minions. 'Death Eaters', they were known as—a fanciful term for a slew of miscreant titled sots. At his elbow, the rather saturnine Marquis Carrow scowled dark as thunder, nodding beetle-brow agreement. As a one, they looked to the Viscount, glaring.

"Exactly!" the LeStrange brothers echoed, biliously and in not-hilarious tempo. They were both cracked as eggs, and known to be mad bastards. "It's a travesty!"

"But…really, Beau," Rowland Hill murmured discreetly into the Iron Duke's ear, "what ever do they mean to imply…? Play's been middling, as always—the Banque's the advantage. I dare say—"

"It's nothing," Wellington replied decisively. "Mere foolishness." But his gaze went instantly to engage Major Potter's. "Don't mind it."

"No," Major Potter echoed. "It's nothing worth notice."

A pregnant silence descended, for just the space of single heart beat. Major Potter could be singled out for his many keen glances, darting furiously round the table, and the Honourable Ronald for the newly pugnacious set to his manly gingery-stubbled jowls. Milord Malfoy, however, revealed not the slightest crack in the unassailable armour of his position as Banquer. He was an elegant citadel of imperturbability, presiding regally.

He raised an icy brow. Slewed his chin, set like a baroque pearl amidst high starched collar points, and narrowed fine pewter eyes upon the unfortunate Pettigrew.

"Really…." he drawled. "You've something to say, plebe?"

"…One would think, perhaps, Lord Malfoy," the Lord Voldemort remarked lightly over the renewed chatter of men gossiping, as Malfoy sanguinely went about the process of collecting cheques. "It was created." His silky voice was just that fine degree of loudness sufficient to be noted subtly over the swell of bass and tenors notes. "That so-fortuitous Split, just now. I wonder…where exactly _does _your Pharo box hail from, if I might be so bold?"

"Flourish and Blott's, milord," the Viscount returned instantly, gaze level and steady upon the baize, never faltering. "Either that or Hatchard's; I forget, really."

Lounging back at his ease finally, all his Banque's counters duly collected, he laid his chin upon a propping fist and raised his eyes to meet Lord Voldemort's somewhat eerily bloodshot ones.

"Why, pray tell? What does it matter?"

"And…if I may…examine it, milord?"

"My box?"

Milord Voldemort was all that was courteous, true enough, but a second, longer hush fell upon the immediate gathering. One that spread, in silent waves, outward and onward from the one particular table hosted by that one particular young Viscount. With but a twitch of that lord's eyelid, a merest flicker of a sideways glance, various and sundry watchful footmen stepped solidly into place before doors; various _other_ gentlemen budged shoulders and knocked elbows meaningfully. For _n'ere_ did a punter question a card case unless he validly suspected a cheat. It was nigh on tantamount to requesting a duel.

"If you wish, milord," the Viscount replied, thinning his lips a smidgeon. "Of course; help yourself."

He raised his wand and levitated it over the green felt with a smooth motion, so that the lacquered box landed gently before Voldemort without so much as a thump. Pettigrew, seated to Milord Voldemort's near hand, abruptly drew back, gasping, shying away from the questionable card case. The various Muggles present, well used to the occasional display of magic, turned not a hair at the sight of a perfectly—apparently—normal Flourish & Blott's Pharo card case, floating.

"But of course, Lord Voldemort. There is nothing untoward there, I'd wager, unless old F& B have gaffed it. Is that what you mean to say, then?"

"Of course not, Lord Malfoy," Voldemort smiled, glancing around him. "I'm sure all is right and tight with the specimen, but…"

"But?" The Viscount's reply was soft, belying the glint in his eyes. "Sir?"

Teeth—yellowish and somewhat snaggly, and not at all the charming smile Thomas Riddle had boasted of as a youth—were flashed at the Viscount. Many teeth, all pointy-sharp.

"I would, actually, feel a great deal more comfortable if we played with this box, here," Lord Voldemort suggested silkily and a box inlaid with mother-of-pearl shimmered into existence before him, quite putting the F&B box to shame, what with its prim bookshop-and-parchment provisioner's plainness. "As I'm positive t'is square and true, y'see. _Mine_. And…as perhaps also as I've a fortune riding upon the next draw. Gentlemen?" He glanced about him. "Any objections to that? And perhaps a fresh deck of cards, as well, Lord Malfoy. To…to keep things all aboveboard."

He snapped his fingers and a deck appeared, still in its waxed parchment wrapper.

"Indeed," Lord Malfoy's nostrils flared, but he only nodded as he watched Milord Voldemort's fingers untying the shop's red sealing-waxed riband. "By all means, I would always wish you were comfortable, sir—here, in my home. As you desire, then. No harm in a new deck, what?"

"None," came the oiled tones of Snape, slithering. "That I see, young sirrah. You are as courteous as your dear Papa—and as fair. However, I'd just like a look-see, Lord Voldemort, if you will." So saying, he took up the Lord's heirloom box and poked at it, with wand and knobby forefinger, examining it from all angles. The other lay discarded, and no one noticed when Potter took possession of it, and tucked it away. "I would greatly dislike," the Headmaster of Hogwarts went on, ever so snidely, "for my particular role in this to be, in any way…tainted."

"Oh, absolutely, Sev, old chap!" Prinny—who'd perhaps not quite twigged there was a 'Situation'—galloped gallantly into the scuffle, flags waving for old friends. For they'd once, long ago, spent a spate of weeks at the same house party, at an estate north of Balmoral, companionably ridding the local lochs of their choicest trout, he and 'old Snapey'.

Snape nodded his thanks to the smiling Regent, most serenely severe.

Milord Voldemort glowered; this tangent was not to his plan, no. He was decidedly displeased with Severus, his eldest supporter. Such gall was execrably offensive!

Lord Malfoy, however, sat stiffly, a smile frozen upon his lips. Events were progressing more quickly than he'd prepared for—even as Slytherin-ready as he always was. He glanced about him from beneath his lashes and saw Potter and Weasley sitting back at their ease, chatting about the latter's upcoming nuptials, completely unconcerned. Any to-do over a possibly faulty card-case was apparently of only passing interest to those Gryffindor fools!

Prinny, meantime, had poked his royal Muggle head together with the Duke's far more patrician one and was murmuring excitedly, giving every sign of working up a good gossip with his mates for afters. The other gentleman merely waited for Lord Snape to vet the box—even Lord Voldemort's closest cronies.

"All is well with this, I'd say," Snape pronounced at last, having subjected the offering to a gimlet gaze. The Lord V only smirked more widely at the scion of Malfoy, oozing an impenetrably thick air of great humility. "I see no harm here, sirs. Let us commence, then. Time is wasting."

"I did not doubt it, truthfully," Voldemort confessed, shrugging his boney shoulders beneath his dark robes. "Lah, but it's a small thing, that, but of great sentimental value—to me, naturally. M'mother's, you know. She played whist with it. And loo, to be sure, with the Queen at Versailles, upon occasion. A keepsake, you understand, from better times." 

"Oh, aye," Pettigrew found both his next planned cue and his voice, simultaneously. He sloshed his pint sloppily, as he'd been quaffing steadily all throughout Headmaster Snape's prolonged investigation. "To Mum's; may they be in our hearts forever!'

The gathered gentlemen murmured appreciation, toasting in turn, champagne flutes and whisky tumblers raised on high. Mothers were generally sacred persons and respected, even by the utterly loutish. Perhaps especially by the utterly loutish. And the golden time before the Wars and Bonaparte's dismal swathe through the capitals of Europe was indeed most nostalgic.

"Most admirable," Prinny, evidently pleased by this happy thought, nodded his acquiescence. "Your man here, milord Voldemort—most admirable of sentiments. Droll, what? And now—" he cast an eye towards their waiting Banquer. "Malfoy, dear chap—are you ready?"

But the Viscount deferred to Milord Voldemort, squinty-eyed and thin of curling, arrogantly upper-crust lip.

"Your Banque, then, milord? I'd assume?" Malfoy asked. His eyes slitted nearly shut

at Voldemort's slow nod. "But of course. I'll take my stake back, then—must keep all right and tight, what?"

"Oh, I shan't presume upon yours, Malfoy," Lord Voldemort riposted easily, shrugging off the question. "Mine, of course." He shoved a purse of Galleons forward; full to bursting it was, the velveteen stretch thin over the fruits of his previous play. "And still at a thousand five a cheque, naturally—current stakes, right-oh? I won't presume to disrupt play further, unless it is to deal?" At the general nod, he graciously raised a summoning hand, beckoning his pet commoner ever closer. "Pettigrew, dear chap, if you'll mind the obolus for us?"

"C-Certainly, milord!" Silver Hand stuck his hand out and the Lord Snape turned his instrument over without a single reptilian blink. "Delighted!"

His breath, gusting sodden with spirits across the baize, was ignored. All eyes were trained upon the new Banquer.

Excepting one set of extraordinarily fine green ones, and they never quite settled upon the whey-faced Viscount's scowl.

"Your bet first, Malfoy? As we've had a reverse?" Lord Voldemort prompted. "All punters may place their bets, please."

There was a scrambling flurry to fling counters, from all punters but one.

"I am terribly sorry, sir. I'm afraid I tire, Lord Voldemort." The Viscount lifted his chin off his hand and used it to collect all his cheques—the sum of his fortune, as Voldemort was well aware. "All games do somehow seem to bore me blind after but a short while. Alas, m'father informs me it is my most monstrous failing." He snorted—a dry little bark of knowing self-derision, played up for the knowing smiles it summoned from his fellows. "But…for your sake, sir, and only that, I'll tarry just a wee…while…longer." The Malfoy scion leant forward and laid them out liberally across the livret. "And watch. Perhaps a thousand here—or a thousand there, yes? You never know: the Lady might smile upon me—though, naturally, I'd soon enough have this little game concluded. Duties as host, don't you know? They do call."

"I'm sure you would, Malfoy," Lord Voldemort relied, bland as unsalted porridge. "And wouldn't we all? Have it over with, then. Finished."

"There, done and done," the young Viscount remarked airily, his bets finalled, his long hands languid, and the Lord Voldemort only contained his vicious internal glee with some effort.

The Viscount, it seemed, was all about playing only court cards; an imperiously arrogant idiot, he, to do so when such an array of high-ranking pasteboard was already laid out 'pon the table—and, too, obviously a vastly poorly swotted student of his revered player of a Papa.

And Milord Voldemort? Well—_he'd_ a whole array of marked highs at the ready, thanks to the convenient clerk at F&B. Indeed, the Malfoy pup would soon be entirely finished, completely pockets-to-let, forlorn and forsworn, and well up the River Tick.

"Taillure, if you please, milord," muttered Pettigrew dutifully, knowing his part in this farce all too well, and watched with a somewhat weary resignation as Voldemort began dealing rapidly, making a great business of throwing down the squares of pasteboard. No one seemed to notice the nearly invisible blots of India ink nor the way the cards hesitated, at times, as he pulled from his box.

And so it went, card after card, and the Banque gained, little by little.

The Viscount Malfoy lost, by Queen and by King, at every hand drawn. One could say his luck had flown southerly—one could say he was foolish to continue.

But they were gentlemen, all, and Malfoy was his own man. What lot he choose was not the business of his fellows, what?

Soon enough, Prinny was saying "Soitraitte et le va, Lord Voldemort!" He clapped his chubby hands, delighted. "Oh, this _is _exciting! Isn't it, Major Potter? I'd've wagered we see a different run with the new cards, don'tcha you know? But it seems to be holding true. Such a _very_ interesting turn of events, yes?"

"Very, Your Majesty. One for White's book, I dare say."

Potter nodded to the Muggle Regent kindly and then returned his attention urgently to the fiery battle upon the baize, playing his favourite Jack, plus a Ten, coppered. The Honourable Ronald Weasley glowered steadfastly behind his ex-Commander, gaze fixed ever-so-markedly suspiciously upon the chatting, freely imbibing, heavily-betting Viscount. As they had been, indeed, for quite some time. Anyone with working eyes could tell instantly the Hon. Ronald was deeply suspicious of Viscount Malfoy.

Two sealed decks later, Malfoy pushed the very last of his diminished counters atop Major Potter's with a careless gesture.

"With you, then, Plain Old Potter, and your infernal, eternal good fortune," he remarked, bitterly enough, and various _au fait_ gentlemen slyly snorted. Gossip had been rife since the events of the Little Season. "_Do_ make it good for_ me_, as well. Just this once, Potter."

"Pleasure, Malfoy. One last time, then."

Major Potter snickered, disguising a wickedly thin species of smile with his whisky glass. The Honourable Ronald glowered heavily at Malfoy's pouty visage, sufficient to set the Glenfiddich in his best mate's hand afire _sans_ flint-and-tinder.

"But…I was under the impression you only barely tolerated the Major, Malfoy?" Goyle whispered quite loudly in his friend's ear, shooting a series of speaking and rather theatrical glances over his shoulder at the lazily lounging Hero. "What with the Weasley chit? And all? Isn't he—_isn't_ he?"

"Pish-tosh!" the Viscount waved his ancient schoolmate off impatiently. "If he wins this turn, then I don't care a whit if he's tipped every ginger bint's skirts in the whole of the demned countryside, Goyle."

Lord Malfoy took up his own tumbler with an unsteady hand and had a gulp. He was flushed and had passed to a slightly mussed and perspiring mien, his cool demeanour slipping away as had his Banque. Which, under Voldemort's quick hands, grew apace and by leaps-and-bounds. "F'r all _I_ know, red cunt hair brings 'im luck, eh? That was the whole of my Irish stud just now, Goyle. Gone, like the bloody wind. Must stem the tide, yes? Any port, storms and all that."

The Hon. Ron sneered even more darkly in the Viscount's direction, his contempt of the acknowledged rake highly visible.

"Ruddy grubber!" he huffed—though yet softly, being still a guest of that selfsame grubber. "Using_ our_ Harry's good fortune to feather his own dirty nest!" He half-rose in his seat, evidently overcome with a great sense of injustice, and jabbed a finger in the blond lord's direction. "Malfoy, I say! Do you never learn, you cad? Have you no shame?"

"What's that you say, Weasley?" The Viscount's swift eye was steely, despite all the undeniable indications the young lord had made some considerable inroads on his house's laid-by store of antique liquors. "Oh—_do_ 's'cuse me, Weaselly-Bee. Have I unknowing offended? La, I am so terribly sorry. Y'see, I had hardly noticed you were here—the draperies, as you see," he pointed an elegant forefinger in the direction of the swags and swags of them, populating nearly every French door leading out to the House's grand balcony, "are scarlet. Scarlet, Weaselly-Bee…like your hair, eh? What?" he trilled, when the Hon. Ron gibbered at him, "you don't see it? Pardon, then, mos'sincerely. Ahhh…what _was_ that you were mumbling at me just now?" The Viscount lurched in his seat. "'Fraid I didn't catch it, sorry. Blinded by your coiffeur."

At Major Potter's sharp elbow nudge, the Hon. Ron subsided abruptly, his arse promptly returning to meet the cushioned plush of the furniture. "…Nothing," he growled sulkily, and turned his air of affront toward Lord Voldemort.

Milord Voldemort, however, was 'tsking!' irritably, fluttering the cards within his long, pale hands. They slithered in the shuffle, oddly reminiscent of a serpent's coils.

"Gentlemen!" His tone was abrupt. "Play is in progress, here, mind you. Do keep your petty squabbles over the fairer sex well out of it." He turned his narrow face in the Viscount's direction, leaning forward as if confidentially, but really much more in the manner of a striking cobra. "And…as for _you_, Malfoy. I would strongly counsel keeping to your own sad business before you're completely bellows to mend. The River Tick carries any number of heedless young heirs away hourly. You wouldn't wish to be one of them, would you? Consider that it is I who advise, as a favour to your dear Father."

"Hear, hear!" snickered Pettigrew. "Nobs should know better, eh?" And a number of other gentlemen nodded and murmured agreement, all Wizards they and Milord McNair prominent amongst them. "Gents is what's gents, what?"

This made no sense a'tall, but the gathered gentlemen still raised their glasses, as was proper at any toasting—or roasting.

The Viscount elevated his chin superbly. But not his glass.

"Why, I thank you, Milord," he drawled, tipping his head in faint acknowledgement. "For your avuncular concern…if that's what it is. Or what I might—at a stretch—name it. M'certain my own dear sire, the Earl—were he present and not fled to the Continent, hounded by ere more avaricious creditors—would commend your so-great kindness to me, his son. What a…caring soul you are, truly, concerning yourself over the likes of me. How very…thoughtful…of you. Advising _me_, though_ I_ hardly know you."

Cross the table, green eyes went three shades darker, a sure sign Major Potter was greatly offended…and scheming mightily.

The Hon. Ron huffed and grumbled but, like his best friend, he didn't toast Pettigrew either.

Bets were placed. Lord Voldemort dealt the next round, wordlessly.

In the far corner of the ballroom, half-hidden behind a grouping of hothouse flora, two ginger-haired, remarkable similar young men appeared with a quiet 'pop!', along with a third—a mousy little clerk-type, from the looks of it—held fast between them by the arms. Too, one of the French doors leading out the gardens opened quietly, almost entirely unnoticed as all eyes were now upon Potter and Malfoy, occupied with glaring venomously at one another across a spread of cards. An olive-complected dandy appeared on the sill, brushing invisible wrinkles from his impeccable coat sleeve. He bore, for all his swarthier skin tone, a remarkable resemblance to Milady Malfoy, nee Black, and also of a vaguely Frenchy origin.

He nodded amiably as he sauntered through the crowd, this new gentleman, snatching up a glass of champagne along the way, and Mr. Harsquack's eyes widened beneath his pomaded locks.

"Hsst, Pansy!" Miss Granger stepped casually back to stand alongside a particularly petite footman in smart livery. "Who's that man? Id he one of Harry's?"

"That's milord Rosier, Granger—the Comte, cousin to Draco. Second, I think, or once removed—something like that. Wonder why _he's_ here? And _now_, of all times?"

"As long as he doesn't get in the way it doesn't matter," Miss Granger murmured in reply. "We're nearly ready. Twins just popped in. They've the man we needed—our key witness. You alright, then?"

Miss Parkinson grinned and allowed the tip of her wand to show. "Your sister-in-law-to-be's just showed me the Bat Bogey Hex, darling. They shan't know what hit them!"

"Excellent!" exulted Miss Granger, gleefully. She grinned at her new mate. "Carry on, then."

Turning, the lady-in-disguise elbowed and excused her way to the very forefront of the sea of gentleman, seeing Nott and Crabbe, Charlie Weasley and Percy (the stick-in-the mud and their scheme's lynchpin) and catching the eye of any number of other alert Wizards—and a few well-Glamoured or Polyjuiced Witches scattered amongst them.

They were a mighty battalion-force this night, Harry's Ad Hoc Army. It was exhilarating, indeed!

"Ah, my apologies, gentlemen," Voldemort was in the midst of remarking. "A pair of Kings here before me and it appears to be to the Banque's advantage. If you please…?"

Came the moment, all at once and out of the blue.

"Cheat!"

Mr. Potter rose to his feet suddenly, his chair falling back behind him with an awful screechy clatter across the marbled flooring. "_Cheater_, Lord Voldemort! That's a marked card you've laid down! I see the ink spots clear as day!"

"Harry!" exclaimed the Viscount, and struggled up as well. "For Merlin's Sake, not yet! Too soon, you fool—too soon!"

"How dare you, Potter!" Voldemort rose slowly, like a cobra, and had his wand out and at the ready, pointed straight at the young man's chest. "How _dare_ you accuse _me_?" he demanded. "That is preposterous!"

"What? _What_?" Prinny gaped and stared, appalled. "Cheating? Here, at Malfoy's? But—but I thought all you Wizards guarded against this sort of thing? A straight game, isn't it? For I'll not abide cheating!"

"Not_ all_ Wizards, Your Majesty," Potter replied grimly, staring down Lord Voldemort. "Sadly, not all. With great power comes great temptation to misuse it and Voldemort here has proven himself unworthy of being a Wizard, on any count. He's a spy for Bonaparte, your Majesty—and a thieving sharp. Those cards are marked, that box of his rigged to the nine, sir. In other words, once a cheat, always a cheat, and here you have a blood traitor, as well. He has—and is even now—conspiring with old Boney 'gainst our England, Sire. He seeks your downfall. We have proof!"

"Not nice!" Apollo squared his stuffed shoulder pads, sniffing.

"God's blood!" exclaimed the Duke, also rising. "Potter?"

"What's that he says? Voldemort a traitor?" The gossip rose like a tidal wave, spreading from the table not so much on ripples but as a great swelling roar.

"Does he refer to the Wars, d'you think, Cupid?" A latecomer to the table shook his head, confused. "Or is it the 'Change again?"

"This demands satisfaction, Potter!" Voldemort shrieked, infuriated. Fenrir—that laggard—wasn't yet positioned where he was supposed to be; Malfoy still had funds! "_At once_! No one accuses me and goes scot-free! No one, and especially not some not a little half-blood Wizardling! You may be lucky, Potter, but that ends this night! Pettigrew! Summon my Death Eaters! Snape! Take Mr. Potter out of play this minute! Bind him—Stun him! McNair, prepare to Obliviate these stupid Muggle slaves! To me, my followers—to me!"

Tumult took over the room, in a flash:

"My god!

"It's the bloody war, all over again! Er…isn't it?"

"Will this never cease?"

"What?"

What's happening?"

"Harry, to your left!"

"Harry, get down!" the Viscount Malfoy called out, frantically scrambling 'round the edges of the round table to get to his lover. "_Harry_!"

"Your Majesty, duck! Under the table, right now!" Wellington grappled his Highness to his knees and shoved him, stays popping, beneath the relative safety of the baize. "Down here, sir; you'll be well out of it here." 

"He'll AK you, Harry!" Malfoy shouted. "Like it was nothing—_get down_, you fool. Get the fuck _down_!" He leapt forward at last, having had no luck what with the fermenting fray.

"But you first, Malfoy!" Lord Voldemort swayed, and it could be seen that he had broken. One hand trailed through the huge piles of the cheques he'd accumulated, the other had switched the wand to aim at Malfoy's pale brow even as the young Wizard moved ever closer to his goal: Potter. "You little bootlicker! You _whore_! Formicating with a plebe and Mudblood plebe at that—you are a disgrace to the True Teachings of Grindlewald! You deserve ruination, scum—_cock_-sucking scum—just like your turncoat sire before you, you whoring ape! Now, die! _Avada_—!"

Major Potter launched himself bodily across the table, firing incantations. Weasley—thinking fast and furious—snatched up the first handy hard object and sent the obolus spinning through the air with brute force enough to fell ten erephants. With a ping and a rattle it slammed into Voldemort's clenched fingers, skewing his wand, and sent the deathly spell harmlessly off toward the ceiling. Plaster rained down and dust clouded the immediate area, fogging vision, rendering the ensuing scramble impossible to sort.

"Not so fast, Voldemort!" thundered the Earl Malfoy, popping regally into the midst. "That's _my_ son, you bastard, and_ my_ future son-in-law, and you'll _not_ have at them! Sev! Where are you?"

"You scum, Malfoy!" Voldemort frothed, spinning one-eighty, his eyes a frighteningly full and brilliant scarlet, pupils eclipsed by the blood hue. "Turncoat! Traitor! **Avada**—!"

"Expelliarmus!" cried out the carrying call of Potter and Voldemort, wildly shooting, jumped and twitched as his wand was wrenched hard from his grip.

"**WHAT**!" he howled. "How _dare_? I'll kill you with my bare hands, you little dirty monster!" he roared, surging forward, a sparse assembly of his Death Eaters behind him. "Right now!"

'No! No, milord! I promised!" came the frantic shout of Pettigrew, leaping forward. "No, milord! You cannot!" he screamed, as Voldemort's wild swinging clipped his jaw. "I promised them, I promised them!" he moaned feverishly as he stumbled, falling harmlessly across the green felt. A spray of ivory cheques was set up, striking those around like small squarely-shaped missiles. "M'mates, long ago….promished…promished _always_…the baby…mind the baby, Pot—"

"_Severus_!" Voldemort demanded, his wand held high. "Time to show your true colours! To _me_, my best and most loyal lieutenant. To _my_ side, where we shall triumph, my old friend! Kill them—kill Potter!"

No one heard Pettigrew's final ramblings as he slumped senseless into a corner, forgotten.

"No," Snape replied quietly enough, sending off a lightning-quick Stunner. "You shan't, false Lord. Your day is done, foul dog. Petrificus _Maximus_ Endurus."

Voldemort, hanging in mid-air, his hands like claws outstretched, scrabbling for Potter' neck, dropped like stone at Snape's booted toes, staring helplessly.

"And that's enough of that, McNair," the Hon Ron mentioned in the suddenly falling hush, having felled that unfortunate gentleman with a handy bit of pugilistic science. "Quiet, if you please."

"And you, too, you beast!" shrieked the still Polyjuiced Miss Granger, dancing madly about a huge hairy figure, twice her size even her borrowed body and quite rudely unshaven before company. "Have at you!"

"Hah! Bat Bogey! Bat Bogey! Thrice Bat Bogey!" An unGlamoured Miss Parkinson had joined her compatriot in battling the sodden werewolf, who lurched from side to side, slavering with menace.

"Bad dog! A Shrinking Pox upon your bits!" Miss Weasley—also Glamoured—got the final, conclusive word in that particular skirmish and Fenrir Greyback halted mid-froth, whimpering and hurriedly clutching his groin. He subsided into a quivering heap and a quick-thinking (and thankfully still sensibly Polyjuiced as a strapping though retired yeoman of the Guard) Miss Bulstrode Incarcerated him on the spot, with an exultant cry of "There! That's_ it_, dog-breath!"

"Harry! Harry! You alright?" demanded Malfoy, deft hands patting Mr. Potter up and down, reassuring himself by feel that his lover yet breathed and blinked, albeit somewhat dazedly. "Harry, _speak_ to me!"

The baize had turned topsy-turvey; all was chaos about them.

"Merlin, yes, love. I think so." Mr. Potter stood upright and looked about him quickly, searching for further threats. Seeing nothing further, he contented himself with gathering a nearly incoherent Viscount to him and embracing him almost to asphyxiation. Their lips met a second after and both were lost to the tumult about them for several quite sensual moments.

"**Silence**!"

Silence obligingly occurred, _tout suite_. Mostly.

"You **will** all comport yourselves this instant!"

The Lord Snape was well accustomed to crowds of useless idiots milling about; he was Headmaster of Hogwarts, after all. When the first quiet request was ineffectual—there were yet a few peeps and mewlings—he roared "Silence!" once more, aided by a Sonorus, and the room instantly hushed to the mortuary stillness of an ancient crypt. All eyes turned to him and also upon the Earl Malfoy, casually stepping up to Lord Snape's right hand.

Earl Malfoy inclined his head to the masses and smiled coolly. "Rumours of my demise, or rather my fortune's demise, have been greatly exagger—" he attempted to remark only to be cut short by the Headmaster's whipcrack call to order.

"_Much_ better," announced Snape, definitively, overriding all interruptions. "Now, let's have this sorted, shall we?" His black eyes turned steely upon the snogging Major, currently attached to the lips of the Viscount.

"Potter. Hoy! You've been cutting up my peace routinely, Major Potter, with all these subterfuges of yours. I cast blame for it on your careless upbringing at the hands of those Dreadful Dursleys. Remind me to hex them the next time I run across them, whelp. Their debt to society is not yet paid up."

Regretfully ripping his dampened mouth away from the seeking lips of his eager lover, Mr. Potter grinned sweetly at the Headmaster of Hogwarts, entirely unfazed by this reference to his humble beginnings and horrid early years. The Viscount huffed, raising a free hand to his pale brow, politically shading his pained glare from Snape's eagle-eyed view.

Snape—the Viscount's godfather—kindly and tacitly ignored his state of dishabille.

"Milord," the Headmaster carried on, nodding acknowledgement to the Duke of Wellington, his Muggle compatriot during the late Wars, who was currently ably escorting an addled and puffing Prince Regent out from under the upturned shelter of the fallen Pharo table, "may I proceed to debrief the civilians present, by your leave?"

"By all means, Master Snape. I do believe it is prudent." Wellington nodded vigorously.

Snape at once snapped his eyes back to the waiting crowd. They dared not move, as many of them—the Wizarding ones, at least—had been Snape's former students. The Muggles amongst them were visibly enthralled, as so often occurred in the presence of magic. Snape was, they were discovering, the holder of hidden depths.

"Downy one," Poodle winked at his friend, Apollo.

"Ah...hah," Apollo tilted his chin just so. "_Very_."

"Very well," Snape remarked. His eyes once again returned to the Major. "Let's see. _Whom_ do we have present that is at all coherent when called upon to speak publicly?" They swiveled away, leaving only the ghost of sneer behind them. "Ah! Comte Rosier! Yes, decidedly." He stared in turn at various ex-students about the room. "Hmm, Weasley, Percy. Ye-es, I s'pose, in a pinch. Weasley, Twins, accounted for. No…_no_, I don't believe so. We shall pass you both over for now, you ginger horrors—I've no patience for your dually-fueled nonsense at the moment. Ah!" A full circuit of the nearby personages brought the Headmaster's eyes once again to the quietly snickering Major. "Ah, well," he sighed gustily, sniffing after. "No help for it. And then there is our Major Potter—of course, Potter," Snape concluded nastily, pinning that young man down with a baleful glare. "Always, always Potter, is it not? Speak up, boy!"

"Sir?" Mr. Potter grinned and bobbed his chin in fond salute. "You require my services? How may I help you; only please but tell me and I shall endeavour away, all wands forward."

"Little git!" Snape snorted to cover the creeping grin. "Fancy yourself, do you?"

The Viscount, still entwined about Mr. Potter, rolled his eyes at their assorted nonsense. This level of sparkling badinage had been a decade or more in the making, it had, and both Snape and Potter were so fond of it they carried on solely for purposed of their mutual amusement, much to the consternation of Miladies Malfoy and Weasley.

"_Harry_!" he hissed. "Get _on_ with it, do! I should like this rabble out of my house some time before morning!"

"Oh—sorry, love," his amore smiled, glancing his way for just a moment before facing his old schoolmaster.

"Ahem," the Major spoke much more loudly, clearing his throat meaningfully till every set of eyes in the room was on him—even the stunned, incarcerated Death Eater's. "My very great pleasure, sir, to oblige. But first, I must wish you a fine good evening, Milord Snape, and oh! A pleasant evening to you as well, my Lord Malfoy," Mr. Potter nodded amiably to the Earl, who merely sneered at him. "Or…shall I address you as 'Father' now, Earl Malfoy? As the Viscount and I have just this moment plighted our eternal _mutual_ troth?"

"Likewise," the Earl muttered reluctantly, a passable excuse for a civil smile curling briefly 'round his thin lips. "Plighting aside, Potter, do get_ on_ with it, Sev! Cissy requires an escort from the Thistlethwaite-Smythe's in a mere quarter hour! I cannot linger."

"Potter, if you please," Snape ordered, in a voice no one ever defied—excepting Mr. Potter, naturally, in his salad days. "As it seems you're always to be found at dead centre of these little political imbroglios, make yourself at least marginally useful, will you? Do endeavour to explain to his Royal Highness and this august company the summary details of Lord Voldemort's ill intentions. I believe many here are still functioning under the misapprehension Lord Voldemort is actually a _gentleman_—which, indeed, he is most decidedly _not_."

Mr. Potter sent his reluctant mentor a mocking half-bow and a decidedly merry twinkle, learnt at the purple-berobed and gold-star-strewn knee of that aged and most ebullient old gent, the Headmaster Emeritus Albus Dumbledore.

"As you wish." 


	8. Chapter TwentyThree

**Twenty Three: Paix, or Routing the Villain (in which Voldemort is Banished to the Antipodes, but not to Elba)**

"Well," Mr. Potter drawled, casting his rumpled person down in a nearby empty chair and taking the startled Viscount with him. Malfoy jittered upon Mr. Potter's lap, blushing a fiery red and fidgeting his fingers all through Mr. Potter's neckcloth. "It's rather like this, you see," he began softly, settling his squirming beloved more firmly, much to the patently plain abhorrence of the elder Malfoy present. "Years ago—during the last, erm, altercation—"

"Oh, do get on, Potter." Snape wafted a white hand at him. "No need to embellish, either. We all know you're something of a hero in England, little get."

'This' was a hideously complicated tale of Voldemort's progressively more subversive actions during the war against Bonaparte, during which he'd been hired as a mole by French spies and paid to feed Napoleon's generals classified information as to the movements of the English troops. His treachery had gone undetected and, indeed, rewarded, for he'd received minor mention in the Dispatches. Still, and no doubt to his chagrin, he'd emerged from the war an 'also-ran', his feats on the field of battle entirely overshadowed by the actions of Potter, Malfoy, the Iron Duke and so forth—a host of Muggles, Wizards and Witches of near-legendary bravery.

Lord Voldemort's (as Riddle had come to be known after a cousin's mysterious death and a hasty succession process) envy, greed, dissatisfaction with his lot and his dwindling fortunes after the events of Waterloo led to further—and marked—moral decay. He'd become a card sharp, and worse yet, an adherent of Dark Magic in the style of the grievous Grindelwald, and travelled the Continent, fleecing baronets at local watering holes, seducing the daughters of wealthy tradesmen and Muggles and generally bemoaning his ill lot amongst like-minded fellows. Further, he'd not only espoused the skewed and hate-mongering teachings of the Wizard Grindlewald, nut taken them up with a fervour, variously denouncing homosexuals, Wizards of mixed Muggle blood and those Purebloods who didn't bother to differentiate.

He'd attracted notice, naturally, and particularly within the ranks of the old Order, a secret-service-cum-hidden think-tank of Britain's best and brightest, all dedicated to upholding the ages-old leadership of both the Muggle Crown and the Ministry.

The Earl Malfoy, well aware of the attraction developed between his son and 'that horrid upstart Potter boy', had thence chosen to play a dangerous game, infiltrating Voldemort's little cadre of believers with the ultimate purpose of revealing them as the pitiful but dangerous cult they were. Milord Severus Snape, upon Headmaster Emeritus Dumbledore's sage advice, had also played an admirable hand in the matter, convincing Voldemort he, too, was a secret believer in the foul 'Cause' and meanwhile keeping the various loyal English parties completely abreast of Voldemort's doings and developments along the 'Death Eater' front...as the circle of miscreants came to be called.

It had taken some considerable time for Voldemort to scrabble a decent toehold into the inner circle of Muggle aristocracy but, once established, he turned that, too, to his evil advantage. Prinny—charming but a fribble in his first flush of youth—was charmed. And also likely Charmed, as well. Years of excess and the use of the Dark Arts had taken their toll upon he who'd been plain Tom Riddle, though, and his once charismatic, vastly handsome visage had gone rattled and gaunt as any two-bit swindler's. Mr. Potter gestured largely at this point in his narrative and a quick spell by Miss Granger revealed the still feebly struggling Voldemort as being years older than anyone had thought, and in very poor shape.

In the end, his last mad scheme had been to Imperio Prinny, just as he'd Imperio'd several of the clerks at Flourish & Blotts and Hatchard's into providing him with marked cards—sanded, cut, blotted—and gaffed card cases for ease of cheating flats. Pettigrew, meanwhile, had built the mother-of-pearl inlaid card box the Lord Voldemort had used to run his own private Pharo Banque (and along the way had had his own hand sliced off at the nub for his troubles, so he'd never be able to create such a wonder again, a la the Greek Daedalus).

Insidious and still persuasive, the Dark Lord had nearly succeeded in his scheme, too, blustering the Muggle Ton with his verbal legerdemain, until Master Snape, the Earl Malfoy and the aged but spritely Headmaster Dumbledore approached a retired Mr. Potter and cajoled him into supporting their counter-scheme to reveal Voldemort as the true blood-traitor and loose fish he truly was. The rest was history.

Potter, terribly concerned by Voldemort's plans for the Viscount Malfoy, had instantly deigned to cooperate. Miss Weasley had agreed in private to set up a red herring of sorts—thus drawing Voldemort's gaze from the endangered Viscount—and the Viscount had publically been summarily scorned by a hard-hearted Mr. Potter, all in the interest of convincing Lord Voldemort Malfoy the Younger was neither a threat nor an ace up the sleeve, to be held in reserve.

Mr. Potter than bowed the makeshift stage over to others attending, who ably took up the threads of the convoluted story for a fascinated audience.

The Comte Rosier testified that he'd observed Voldemort cheating, and often, at all the many foreign capitals they both frequented. Snape spoke, dryly and with brevity, of the miscellaneous horrors witnessed at the fastnesses of Voldemort's Death Eater camp. Miss Parkinson described the thrall in which her poor deluded Papa had been held, all these years. And Mr. Potter and the Viscount Malfoy detailed their suspicions as to Voldemort's calumny during the War, ably supported by Miss Granger's quickly gathered research material and Lord Nott's graphic events time-lines and numeric data. The previously Imperio'd clerk mumbled out condemning fact after fact as to purchases of pallet-loads of crooked card decks, and the previously penurious Earl revealed all he'd learnt through years of close-range observation, in turn.

Lord Voldemort, still helpless within his bonds and snarling red-eyed at them, was finally fully disgraced, beyond any hope of redemption or mercy, before Muggle and Wizarding aristocracy both.

It was done, and done.

"I'm appalled!" exclaimed the Prince Regent, when the telling was finally told. The masses had by then taken to emptying the cellars of Malfoy House of the second-best casks of port and pre-Napoleonic brandy. He raised his latest tumblerful, sloshing it about and all over his waistcoat in horrified emphasis. "Utterly! To think that such—such evil acts go on under Our Very Royal Noses! Bah! Wellesley, old chap—I've need of you!"

"Your Majesty?" that long-suffering gentleman sighed. "How may I be of service, Your Majesty?'

"To the Tower with this—this scum, and may he rot there 'til the hangman's noose crushes his lying windpipe." Prinny took a moment to glance about him, taking in the wearied faces of all those present—but one in particular. "And Mr. Potter, my Lords—I give you My Lord Potter. For We cannot thank you sufficiently, young Harry—may We address you so? The Crown shall be ever grateful and you shall receive your just rewards! A title, mayhap—and then there's this rather choice little property I've just won, lying right smart along the Border with Wales. Would you, perhaps, be interested in that, sir?"

"Brilliant, Your Majesty," Mr. Potter bowed his head, rugged chin just tapping the starched points of his Waterfall. "I do thank you for your kindnesses. But, really, Your Majesty—it was but a trifle."

"It was _not_ nothing, Potter!" The Viscount—sprawled at elegant ease across Mr. Potter's superfine-clad breeches at last—also allowed a smile of the most intriguing charm and sweetness to escape him in his joy despite his grumble. "Still, Your Majesty, most kind—_most_ generous. Thank you."

"Malfoy!" the new Lord Potter hissed, dangerously. "You talk too—"

"Hear, hear!" the Viscount remarked airily, unrepentant. "See, Potter? I told you you were meant for better things."

"Pish tosh!"

"yes, indeed," the Earl sneered sofly. "There can only be room for improvement, when it comes to Potter."

"And—if I may take this opportunity, Your Majesty." Mr. Potter—now Lord—raised a cocky brow at the gathered masses. "As there's ever so many noble witnesses to attest to my veracity—Draco, my dearest love, my only. Please do me the honour!"

"Egads, Harry!" exclaimed the Viscount, thrust off and staggering a step away widdershins. He righted himself with a snort. "_What_ in the blazes? Merlin!"

For the new Lord Potter had tipped the Viscount unceremoniously sideways and off his lap; had risen to his feet like the veriest shot from a cannon, but all this only to instantly descend to his knees, capturing and clutching the Viscount's wildly waving left hand in one of his own.

With a twinkle of lofty golden glitter and an impressive sleight-of-hand (according to the Muggles attending, attesting to their mates well after) Potter's other paw swept a sparkling circlet through the empty air before him and a tiny, velvet-covered, crimson box inscribed 'Rundell & Bridge's' appeared on the flat of his palm, already popped wide open at the clamshell hinge. Within was displayed a marvel of a jewel, faceted and many-coloured, and seemingly in process of shifting continuously from gold to silver, from emerald to ruby, and from elegantly plain and no-nonsense to a perfect example of the jeweler's art of filigree and overwrought engraving.

It was amazing, this band, and the Muggle gentlemen exclaimed quietly amongst themselves: "Magic! It's magic! S'truth!"

"T'is but a mere token, Draco, my love," Mr. Potter announced loudly—and there was no need for a Sonorous. The room had gone all agog and at once deathly silent. Everyone awaited further events. "But I've been waiting most patiently for a rather long time to ask this of you, m'love, and I've a special license stuck in my pocket even now, and—and you'll forgive me, I daresay, but I'd really prefer we had an audience, this time at least, so there's no wriggle room left for you, old chap. Difficult as you are—and unruly. Which I do adore in you, honestly. But—my sweet, my very dear, my Draco—there's no time like the present, is there? As I don't wish to fritter another uselessly lonely moment away without you, love."

"Hnh?"

"Draco?" milord Potter prompted, joggling the dumb-struck Viscount's wrists. "Draco, are you listening? Do! Eyes on me, you bacon-brained cockscomb! I'm asking for hand, git."

The Viscount, frozen, speechless and gawping flounder-like, went a total of three shades paler than his usual and swayed where he stood, as if he'd been suddenly struck by a blustery gale.

"—Harry!" It was almost silent, his acknowledgement that he was, indeed, listening intently; his reedy response hitting only on the consonants and letting the vowels fly away, free as air. "—rry!"

"Draco, my chosen leg-shackle, please, will you do me the brilliant honour of being my very own, till death do us—"

There was a mad scramble; a blur of fine fabric and lint-white hair, flushed cheeks and burning grey eyes, and then a sudden 'thunk-thump!' when the elegantly attired scion of the proud Malfoy family flailed just as though he'd been struck with a LegLocker Charm and literally tumbled right off his pins.

He reached out tremulous hands and immediately grasped tight as a demon at Mr. Potter's upper arms. Gasping all the while.

"Mah!" he panted. "Ma-**mah**!"

As a one, the group about them drifted closer yet, not willing to miss a moment of this most unusual public proposal. A double, it seemed, as the Viscount continued yapping—which was one for the books, down the Club.

"_**Marry me, Harry**_!" the Viscount all but shouted, his upper-class tenor drowning out Mr. Potter's mumbly baritone altogether, overtaking it in histrionics. "Wed _**me**_, you rag-mannered fool!"

"Oh! But!" Mr. Potter's eyes rounded in shock. "Wh-what?"

"Wed me, Harry, or I'll wear the willow forever after, I swear it! Be mine! Be a Malfoy, you idiot-arse Plain Old Potter!"

"D-Draco?"

"Say you will, sod it, or I'll hex that foolish gob of yours permanently shut fast! Because—don't you dare brush this off, Potty—I asked it of you _first_! Remember?"

"Leggome, M'foy!" Mr. Potter sputtered. "Pissant ponce!"

"Shut up and say bloody _yes_, Harry! I'll hex you, I will! I swear it!"

All the while both gentlemen were scrabbling 'round on Malfoy House's hand-laid parquet flooring, still n their knees, nose to nose, breeches sticky with the slops of Summoned champagne and spilt Firewhisky, clutching furiously at each other's hands and forearms and well-nigh wrestling like Russian bears over the be-velveted box and its contents.

"Eh?" Mr. Potter gasped, gawking, gulping—and fuming. "What's that you say, Malfoy?" He swallowed with some visible difficulty, blinking. Then, with eyes narrowed to scimitar slits, he glared mightily at his assaultor. "Why, _you_! Stealing my thunder, you bloody-minded pillock! Shoving your oar in now, at this late hour, are you? Who d'you think you are, you—_you stuck-up son of a—_!"

"Mind m'wife, Potter," the Earl remarked mildly. "She's to be your close relation, soon enough. Some respect for her, please, you unruly pup."

Lord Potter only snarled, being busy with attempting to stifle the Viscount forcibly, mainly by applying a righteous palm to his flapping lips.

"Shut your gob, Malfoy! All of you!"

"_Really_, Potter?" Milord Snape raised a dubious eyebrow at the proceedings. "You know..." He turned to his old friend and schoolmate, the Earl. "This doesn't bode well for the in-laws to be, does it, Lucius?"

"Bah!"

"Harry! I said—"

"No! No, you _didn't_, you wanker—it was _me_! _I_ asked first, damn your eyes!"

Lord Potter reclaimed the box with panache and shoved the much-contested ring on the Viscount's waggling ring finger.

"So there!"

"_**Pot**__—! _ Oh, do put a cork in it, Harry! Just say _**yes**_!" the harried Viscount squawked. He lunged forward without warning and rammed his tongue into the midst of Lord Potter's unending flow of angry vituperation, being a gentleman bred and bourne and thus quite mindful of the ears of the disguised ladies present. It was more than time for desperate measures, 'sides. "**Yes**, yes, _ye_-mmmm...brilliant...!"

"Mmphh!" Lord Potter groaned, bowled over. "Nhn-nhn-nhn!"

Rolled his eyes helplessly as he sank to the floor completely beneath the weight of a victoriously impetuous young Lord of the Realm. Then his eyelids went half-mast, sinking shut...and then he ignominiously gave in, defeated by Cupid's wicked dart, with a further semi-muffled moan of delight.

"Mmmmh! Nhh! Umm...ah!"

Fortunately, for innocent ears, additional prenuptial acrimony was sealed off by a lengthy, extremely vehement snog, partaken by the parts of both parties.

"Finally!" Miss Parkinson was heard to sniff, her nose elevated loftily. "Took them long enough, don't you think?"

"Oh, hush, girl," Miss Weasley giggled, poking an elbow into Miss Parkinson's livery clad bodice. "You're only just jealous, dear. Don't worry—mayhap someday some poor soul will dare take up arms and kiss you like that, eh?"

"'Zounds, Harry! You're _both_ touched in the upper works, aren't you? Silly sods! Still and all, I wish you joy and all that rot! My heartiest congratulations!"

The Hon. Ronald, standing proudly by his still mostly Polyjuiced bluestocking bride-to-be, began to guffaw in great earnest; a glorious infectious sort of sound that soon spread like wildfire, affecting even the broomstick-up-the-arse Percy Weasley and His Majesty Himself, who quite liked a good jest, upon occasion.

"Hear, hear!" proclaimed Prinny faintly, not to be outdone by a mere Honourable. "I do believe...hear, hear? Potter and Malfoy, I give you, indeed! Er...just so, then..."

For he was a wee bit bewildered yet, but then Milord the Duke capably took him aside and whispered in his royal ear. And the Earl toasted them—briefly—and Snape himself did raise a dutiful glass in proper witness, and so the cheer was taken up heartily and rang through the halls of Malfoy House in a jolly cacophony, and voices rose and flowed forth like the champagne fountains...till at last all was settled and a reserved and dignified quiet hush once again reigned.

_Late_; late it was, too, e're that came about. But serene and at peace were the demesnes...as was befitting a Malfoy residence.


	9. Chapter TwentyFour

**Twenty Four: The Banque Wins All Wagers (in which the Viscount is triumphant—as is Mr. Potter)**

"You're the fribble, Draco," Mr. Potter pointed out, in the sanctity of the Viscount's bedroom suite. "These buttons you sport are ridiculously large."

"No, _you_, Potter," the Viscount retorted. "These inexpressibles you insist upon are practically moulded to your hips. Did you use a Mugglish glue to affix them, I wonder?"

"And this coat?" Potter grumbled, fingers fumbling. "Was it sewn on? Have you had poor old Bagshotte here again, toiling away behind scenes?"

Milord Viscount snorted.

"These boots, although gloriously well-made and of a mirror-like hue, Harry, are not the thing when one wishes to divest you of them quickly. Do reconsider your choice of footwear."

He tapped his wand at them and they Vanished.

"But I do admire your shirt, my love," Harry remarked, tilting his head to observe the effects of his freely given kisses and apparently not giving a whit as the whereabouts of his footwear. "Such a thin fabric, muslin. Transparent, even, when one employs one's mouth to transfer moisture."

"Oh! You're incorrigible, Harry! That's foul of you, diverting me! I shall have to press here," the Viscount allowed his fingers to find Mr. Potter's newly revealed privates and spent a breath fiddling in their vicinity. "Just here, as you see, and employ this fascinating technique Zabini taught me—you know, that same exact one all the best Cyprians use on a fellow for a mere hundred Galleons an hour? Most scientific, the effect upon the circulation."

"Like that, are we?" growled Mr. Lord Potter, who might end his days as Mr. Lord Draco, or might not. "Vixen! I've a little science of mine own at hand, you realize. Not all of us need magic to enchant."

"Mmmm, a challenge," the Viscount chuckled. "I can charm you very well, beloved, just with this—and this—and this." The Viscount's tongue was, indeed, quite charming, especially as applied to pulse points revealed by discarded finery.

"No! Put that where my ruddy Galleons are, gudgeon!" gasped Lord Harry, arching up on his toes and forcing the Viscount's pale head down to crotch-level with both palms. The Viscount went more than willingly, folding his long legs beneath him and kneeling up upon the heels of the Hoby boots he still wore. His haunches strained as his head bobbed; Lord Harry regarded him fondly—but with an admonitory air, withal. "You would be wanting a little something to ease entry first, would you not, Draco?" he enquired, petting away at the silken locks beneath his hands. "And...and p'raps, fewer garments? For I should like very much to see you. As you're mine to see."

"Aungh! Harry! Stop with that shoving!" Malfoy protested, rearing back after a particularly strong poke in the gullet. He deftly sidestepped the question of who owned whom. "Merlin, lover! Restrain yourself—I'm at your service, remember? We've all the time in the world, now."

"Um?" A speaking look indicated the crying need for additional attentions. "Malfoy, do have at it!" he was urged.

Settling himself, comfortably on the floor, the Viscount applied his talented mouth with great good will and skill. A thorough lave of root and balls and then the steady slow swallow of which he was a past master soon had Lord Harry merrily grunting his burgeoning pleasure.

"Ah! Ahah! Draco!" he groaned. "You're—you're a marvel, m'love. I cannot help myself but to worship the very ground—the very—**ah**!"

"H-How? Er-_oww_! Eager, aren't you?" croaked the Viscount, pulling off with a 'plop!' after he was satisfied Mr. Potter's jewels were polished to blinding brilliance, and then tried quizzing his affianced again, after a decent swallow. "Ahem, how d'you want to love me, Harry? Your choice, naturally...but sooner rather than later, git, as I find myself in a bit of a bumblebroth here," he pressed a slim hand to his swollen groin, rubbing at it and wincing. "Aches, don't you know? Been, this age, and something fierce. Help me?"

The lazily slitted green eyes popped open and Lord Harry smiled widely down at his betrothed; long and slow, in a rather melt-causing method. His lordship the Viscount grinned back, rather helplessly, rendered smitten all over again.

"Ha-Harry?" he breathed and raised a slow hand in wonder, as if to stroke that dear stubbled cheek.

"Gladly. Any and every way I can, Draco. And every day till we're dust."

"Oh!" his fiancé sighed, happily. "But, that's..."

"Expected, of course," Lord Harry sent him a rather amused glance. "Hmm? What, love? You're staring."

A fond Peer gazed up at his former 'Plain Old Potter', standing garbed only in all his skin and naught else: a feast of bare-arsed glory on view, as the man had always been known to clean up rather nicely. He returned that teasing grin with a very boyish and slightly vacuous one of his own, his fine hair drifting down across his high brow as he drank up the sight of his newly acquired prize. He was feeling flush, was Milord Draco, having gained an official tenant-for-life, his own stern sire's rather high-handed blessing upon it and all his prior fortune returned to his coffers again, as well as a good deal more, and all in a mere few hours run at table.

Oh! And the riddance of the world's worst villain, of course. Which went without saying when Potter was involved but...still. T'was a satisfyingly full and productive day the Viscount had experienced thus far.

"M'love?"

"Hmm..." The Viscount fondled his own bits absentmindedly, thinking. "This." His eyes shifted to Lord Harry's cock, surging like a banner but a few inches from his lips. "This leaves me happy enough, for now. Yes—mmm..." He licked at the bollocks that swung heavy and ripe below happily, tasting salt and musk and that lovely clean hint of moss and rainwater that was his lover's distinctive odour. "Humm...those, as well. Delicious."

"Deviant!"

Too, the Muggle's Prinny had more than hinted at further honours for all involved in the capture of the traitorous Lord Voldemort. The Viscount found himself rather hoping such rewards were to be completely material—he'd enough titles to be going on with, Muggle and Wizarding. And now so did his heart's delight, Plain Old Potter.

They matched, at last, on all fronts. It pleased Milord to no end, that turnout.

For the moment, though, he'd an odd but undeniable impulse to play Devil's Advocate. Perhaps it was that it had been so long in coming but Milord felt the need to poke at his greatly improved circumstances with a bit of a sharp stick.

Milord Potter, conversely, felt the need to prompt him. As to the object at immediate hand: his painfully full cock.

"Draco? Er...? More, now?"

"Hnh," the abstracted lordling muttered. "Tempting, yes. Very, but._ No_...not just yet. I say, Harry?"

He angled a groomed blond eyebrow at the inviting flesh before him before dragging his eyes away and casting them high, to meet Potter's somewhat inquisitive ones square-on.

"Draco? What is it, love?" Potter's toadly-green eyes were intensely curious; they scanned Draco's face like a beam from one of the new-fangled Muggle gaslights. "Do say what maggot you've got burrowing in that wicked head of yours now, dear. You worry me when you're thinking, you realize."

Draco chuckled richly, his pressing state of lusty need temporarily set aside.

"'Dear'," he echoed mockingly. "And so I should, your Nibs. Well, it's this: you _do_ admit, Harry, you've taken up quite a gamble here, accepting my suit? For, say...what if we tire of each other now we've finally gained m'parent's blessing? What if, p'raps in a mere fifty years or so, you wake up one fine morn' to the realization a ginger filly would've been your better bet in the long course? What then?"

He drew his brows together in a wee frown, eyeing all of his affianced person's person.

"I must say, Harry...it troubles me."

"Oh, erm…hmmm, let me think on that, will you? A moment..."

Milord Malfoy scowled instantly, black as thunder. "You should _not_ be required to _think_, Harry!" he protested haughtily. "This should be at the very tip of that lovely tongue of yours, bacon-brained Potter!"

"Ah...well. As to that..."

Mr. Potter cocked his head, enjoying the view kneeling supplicant before him, halfnaked and nicely erect within his breeches: Malfoy was a vision of pink-edged ivory and trim, lean musculature, broad shoulders atop a narrow waist, and an arse that belonged, quite honestly, on one of the disputed Elgin Marbles (Adonis, of course).

"Potter! Cease stalling!" Kneeling he might be but Draco was proud as the very Devil, forsooth.

"I'm, er, pondering, m'love, as to how honestly I should reply. A moment more, if you please? Wouldn't wish to be impolitic."

"_Honestly_?" he growled. "God's blood, Harry!"

Malfoy continued to glower, which was truthfully still enormously attractive...as the scowl was more of a pout and the grey of his eyes terribly serious despite their banter.

"Shouldn't be called upon to ponder it, Potter," he grumbled, setting his well-kissed lips in a thin virtuous line. "Not that difficult a query, really."

Milord Potter grinned.

No...Malfoy was a bloody Nonpareil, in s'truth, for he'd never once, rake or no, given himself over to the excesses that plagued so many of their fellow gentlemen, rendering them paunchy, goutish fops with little to occupy themselves but the latest mode from Paris and the freshest _ondits_from Almack's. Milord Potter, not being a bad judge of horseflesh himself—nor of racing Thestrals, either—and having had the opportunity to cast long and contemplative gazes at both the sire and the dam, was more than willing to wager he'd be as satisfied a Wizard in a span of fifty years as he was right this very moment. Nay...a hundred!

"Hmmm," he murmured at long last, tapping his chin with one contemplative finger, "upon real consideration, I'd say you're fishing, Malfoy. Doing it up entirely too brown, begging for the pretty. Caper-witted coxcomb—as if you've any need when you're well aware of my sentiments! But, say. In the interests of fairness all 'round, shall we lay a small wager upon it?"

"A wager? Whatever are you on about, Harry? What type of wager?" The Viscount was understandably piqued. He shifted upon his kneecaps, laying a proprietary hand upon Mr. Potter's family jewels. Soon to be his own for the taking; he couldn't help but exult over the prospect, and henceforth to be even more jealously guarded of Potter in the hereafter. "Spill, my man. You're not at all clear as to terms."

"Simply this," Milord Potter replied, sweeping a hand wide about the confines of the elegantly appointed room. "Ask me that same question again after this fifty years you've mentioned has passed us by and see what my reply will be then—whether it t'will be I'm still as delighted with my chosen—and hard won, Draco!—lot as I am now. Or not...which is completely unlikely, arse. As you know, damn you. Think I've taken pains to make it rather plain—"

"Hmph!" the Viscount snorted huffily. "You're not the only chap who fought for it, Har—"

"Shush!" His lover laid a soothing forefinger acrost the Viscount's scowling lips. "Listen, you. I'll lay you a pony—no, better! That breeding pair you're so fond of, shall we? _I_ say it'll not have changed one whit, my gut. My...heart's wish. But if it has, Draco m'love, then I'll simply provide you another fifty years or so in which to convince me you Malfoys are truly the best of all possible options. Those acceptable terms, d'you figure?"

Milord Potter grinned merry as grigs, certain he'd rigged up an inescapable box, for which to trap his foolishly sly Slytherin within.

"Mmm..."

The Viscount leant forward once more and gave Mr. Potter's captured cock a leisurely lick, much as he would've a melting shaved ice at Astley's. His smile never slipped; perhaps even it grew more incandescent.

"Ah!" he said softly, drawing back, a tiny curl of glee growing upon those cherried lips. He licked again; a cat-like tongue tip curling scarlet, and ceased once more, quick as lightning strike and teasing, only to rest his somewhat pointy chin rudely upon the slit of Potter's turgidly firm tackle.

"You believe yourself clever, now? That's neatly done, Harry, I must admit."

With a jaunty nod and an aimless air, he rounded his lips once more and sucked in the blushing head of Mr. Potter's cock again, teasing it to an exquisitely ripe fullness.

"But foolish. Your cow-handed attempt to cut a wheedle and turn me up sweet, I mean. Prefer plain speaking, Potter—you know that, don't you?"

"Mmm!" Mr. Potter remarked, with a shiver. "But! But—I am serious, love!" he remonstrated. "Quite! Never more so!"

The Viscount halted abruptly and removed his wicked mouth. Licking his lips, he glanced up at Mr. Potter's rapt features, a teasing tilt decorating his scarlet mouth.

"I win if I win, then, and…too, I win if I lose, as well. Is that not correct? Your wager?"

Mr. Potter nodded. "Exactly, love. And of course we shan't mention that I've suggested much this same bet to you previous, many a time over the years—or at least the terms. No, shan't breathe a word about _that_, wanker. 'Course you always have brushed me off—"

"Gammon," the Viscount replied decisively, snapping his teeth dangerously. "Haven't." Applying himself studiously, he licked and sucked for a ten-second bout and then released the turgid flesh yet again, leaving Mr. Potter listing slightly in the wake. "That was _my_suggestion, Harry. I was the one who said we should be together first."

"It wasn't," Mr. Potter insisted, breathing hard. "Gods, Draco! _I_brought it up, likely as far back as Hogwarts. I clearly recall. Down by the Lake, it was, and I Summoned you a posy and went down upon my knee, like a decent chap—"

"It _was_ not, chucklehead," Malfoy was adamant. "You only jested then. I remember it like yesterday." So much so he ceased his fitful teasing of his lover's leaky slit. "I believe _I_ mentioned the idea to you as early as Madame's. So...in fact, I was much before you."

"No!" Milord Potter exclaimed breathlessly. "When did you ever?"

Having had his say, the Viscount ignored milord Potter completely and returned wholeheartedly to his chosen task, lipping and sipping, till Mr. Potter at least burst out with a second objection—though not to the Viscount's oral activity.

"Draco, that's bosh! Really! When did you_ ever_?"

"Mmm. Pah!" Milord Malfoy paused yet again, pulling off. He frowned heartily up at his fretful companion. "You're distracting me, you know? This—" he jiggled Potter's cock, firmly in his grasp and glistening, "is a serious matter. I must attend to it. And no, _really_. I did, I swear it, Harry. At Malkin's Robe Shoppe. At some point between our discussion of racing brooms and the relative merits of Houses, it was. D'you seriously not recall? I spoke of bloodlines. How I believed they should be kept strong amongst the Families."

"_What_?" his fiancé demanded. "You meant when you said you thought it should kept to the old families, the Magic, you meant _us_?"

"Of course," Malfoy slurped calmly, back to his task. "You—were—clearly—of—good—stock...for a rag-mannered ruffian, that is. I noted it right off. Handsome."

The Viscount resumed the deep swallows that always rendered Potter mute, even going so fast as to increase his previous pace, and Mr. Potter clearly felt the pressure.

"Bah! Ri-dic-u-lous!" he swore. "You're...entirely…jingle-brained, Malfoy!" he gasped, gripping the blond head fast. The Viscount grinned secretively and concentrated on applying an intensifying degree of suction. "No—such—thing!" Potter went on, determinedly.

"Not—at—all, Potter!" Draco retorted, sucking furiously between words and frowning all the while in fierce concentration. With a heartfelt sigh, he pulled off yet one more time, his expression much put-upon. "Hnh. Ahem." He affixed Potter with a minatory glare. "It was a rudimentary attempt at courting, discussing broomsticks and blood lines at Madame Malkin's; a euphemism, really. I wished you to notice _me_, most particularly—and you did, did you not? But what can I say?" he inquired, shrugging. "It was calf-love, Harry. I was young—inexperienced. P'raps not at my best and most charming, admittedly. But...sincere enough for all that. I wanted you even then."

"And likely mad, mad as a—bleeding—hatter!" Mr. Potter exclaimed, his knees trembling as a result of various shocks to his system. "I'd no idea, did you know? Oi—hey?"

He jiggled his cock earnestly, in hopes of recapturing the Viscount's interest. The Viscount promptly and obligingly returned to his task and devoted the following moments to technique.

"None—and! _And_, mind you!" Moments on, Mr. Potter, apparently being somewhat deranged by the on-again, off-again manner of sensual torment he was subject to, carried on with a spotty sort of reminiscing. "We were but _eleven_—hardly of an age! And even then you were so—so import—ah! To—me! **Ahah**! Draco! I'm—_I'm_!"

"There!"

Cock slid down white throat, throbbing. The hero Potter ejaculated heroically, with a garbled shout.

"…Mine," the Viscount whispered softly, having swallowed with a feline and impudent grin. "Ah—um! _Finally_. And I knew that...dunce. Never you fear."

"Coming!" managed a gasping and wall-eyed Mr. Potter, mouth lagging well after the fact. "C-Coming, love!"

"I know that, too, m'sweet. C'mere, will you? Easy!"

The smirking Viscount let his lover's trembling thighs go just long enough to grasp him firmly 'round the waist, steadying him as he slumped back against the wall and sagged inelegantly down it. He landed on his flushed buttocks with a bit of a solid thump at the base of it and was gathered close and hard instantly, and peppered about the scarred brow and tumbled locks with fond kisses.

The young Lord Potter smiled and laid a hand against his paramour's damp chest, feeling the thunder of a stout heart within.

"...And that?" Milord Potter—whom, by all odds, was really very like to become known as 'Milord Malfoy-Potter' when push came to shove—asked feebly. "_That's_ your final word on it? My wager? You won't take me up on it, like a good chap?"

The blond hair flew as Malfoy shook his head, swiping at his wet lips and damped-down chin in passing.

"Mmm-hmm. No. No need, really. Y'see, _you_ bet, Potty," the Viscount pointed out reasonably, pressing tiny kisses across Mr. Potter's sweaty upper lip and, as always, managing to have the very last word. "But _I_win."

**End Game**

For basic information on the game of Pharo, see the Wiki.

.org/wiki/Faro_(card_game)

Cant/Slang for the Regency Period

.com/site/regencymurdermystery/slang


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